


Through Dark, Cold Water

by roebling



Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - No Band, Gen, Ghosts, Gumiho - Freeform, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Self-Discovery, TheBrownieBunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-08 20:56:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disappointment at work is a little more than Yoo Youngjae can handle. He leaves his comfortable, routine life in Seoul for a break at his family's old house in the country. He just wants some time away to figure out who he is, but he will discover things much more wonderful -- and terrible -- than he ever imagined. </p><p>Written for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/collections/the_brownie_bunch_5">The Brownie Bunch round 5</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Dark, Cold Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BAP_stardrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BAP_stardrop/gifts).



> **Trigger Warning** \- this story contains some explicit violence, including mentions of drowning / being drowned. It also includes a brief mention of an off-screen, historical suicide (in the context of a ghost). If you would like any more information about the contents, please comment or message me :) 
> 
> Dear specialguest!! 
> 
> Thank you for an inspiring prompt that gave me a ton of leeway to be creative! I hope you enjoy this story :) It was a pleasure to write!
> 
> Thank you to S and to L for the very helpful beta reads!!
> 
> More notes at the end!

"You got there with no problems?"

Youngjae shifts his phone to his other hand, distracted. "It's only a two hour drive, Daehyun. It takes you longer to go visit your parents.”

He jams the key into the big lock in the center of the gate and turns.

"I know," Daehyun says, a little reproachful. "I just wanted to make sure everything went okay."

"It hasn't gone at all yet," Youngjae says, annoyed. The lock is sticking. "I haven't even gotten in the house yet." Thunder echoes angrily overhead. "Listen, Daehyun, I'll call you back. It's about to start pouring."

He hangs up before Daehyun can reply.

The lock is ancient and rusty. Of course, things wouldn’t get off to an easy start. Youngjae does not have that kind of luck. He throws all of his weight into turning the key. The mechanism in the lock reluctantly starts to grind open. He strains once more and with a groan the lock turns over and the wooden gate swings open.

Youngjae exhales. His hands are dirty. He frowns at them and rubs them vigorously against his thighs, leaving two black smudges on his jeans.

His grandmother's house is not the same as he remembers. The bright gardens from his childhood are overgrown and shabby now. The house has an foreboding, vacant look. Well, this is what he wanted right? He doesn’t need creature comforts. He is looking for a challenge. He is looking for something sincere, as best as he can reason.

He dumps his backpack and the bag of groceries from the store in town in the entryway and heads to the car to get his suitcase. The clouds are building darker and more massive. The wind picks up, making all the trees rustle uneasily. He grabs his stuff from the car as fat cold raindrops start to fall. He pulls the gate shut behind him and steps into the house just as the sky opens up. Water streams off the roof. In an instant, the only thing he can hear is the storm.

Youngjae turns around and looks at the dark entryway, at the dark living room beyond.

"Okay," he says. "I guess I'm really doing this.."

****

He sleeps with the light on. A fear of the dark is not one of Youngjae's particular phobias, but he's alone in a house that hasn't been lived in in 10 years and a storm is raging outside. He's so tired he passes out as soon as his head hits the pillow, lights on or not. He hasn’t done much other than drive a few hours, but his exhaustion is more emotional than physical. It’s been a long few weeks, and he is still uncertain about so much.

He wakes suddenly with no idea where he is or what time it is. The house is dark. The rain is still loud against the tiled roof. He looks over at his phone. It's three in the morning. His phone is not charging; the power is out. He has no cell signal, and he doesn't know who he'd call if he did. He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

The power is still out in the morning. Youngjae opens his eyes. They’re cresty with sleep. He’s stiff and aches all over. He’s not used to sleeping on a futon. Daehyun likes a soft mattress. He’d rather not get up, but he’s never been able to go back to sleep once he is. With a groan, he rolls over and reaches for his phone. The battery is down to 20%. By the look of the low, dark clouds more rain is on the way. With the power out, he hasn't even got a way to make himself a cup of coffee, but there’s not much incentive to stay in bed.

"Ugh," he says, slumping into a chair at the kitchen table. It wobbles. One of the legs must be loose. He’s going to have to try to fix that, after the lights come back on. How long is that going to take, he wonders? This area can’t be a priority for the utility company. Is there even any point in calling to report the problem?

After staring morosely at the dirty kitchen for a while, he decides he'll drive into town and see if the power is on there. At the least he get a cup of coffee. There's no real coffee shop, but there is a convenience store where he can get some cheap drip brew. It's not good, but it's got caffeine and that's the important thing. Outside, it is grey and misty but not yet raining. The unpaved driveway is a long slick of mud. The house sits alongside a little mountain stream that flows down from further uphill. Normally, it’s no more than a clear little trickle that falls musically over rocks and boulders. Last night, it must have overflowed its banks and flooded the drive. The tires squeal for a moment before he finds traction and heads onto the gravel road.

It is a pretty drive. The house is twenty minutes by car outside of town on the ridge that leads up to a line of hills. As he heads down to the main road, he has a fine view of the brilliant green fields and tiny farm houses spread out below. In the distance, the blocky apartments and offices of the town are like the grey ghosts of buildings. It’s picturesque, like something out of an old movie.

Halfway down the hill, set back from the road, there's a tumbledown old house -- much older than his family's place -- that Youngjae has passed dozens of time. He's always just assumed it was abandoned. The place is in disrepair, and he normally wouldn’t pay it any attention but ne notices to his surprise that a light is on in one of the windows.

What the hell. Isn't the power out? Youngjae pulls off the road and puts the car into park. His feet sink into the inches of mud. He sighs. These sneakers are going to be ruined.

The house doesn't have much curb appeal. The stone wall that lines the property is tumbling down and overgrown with moss. The gate is gone entirely, leaving just a gaping hole in the wall. It’s a strange lonely place, but Youngjae can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. That’s all in his head, though. It must be. The neighborly thing to do is to introduce himself, see if the power is on and figure out if he'll ever be able to get his damn coffee maker working.

He steps gingerly up to the front door. It is a thick, old door with clever little brass knocker in the shape of a fox’s head.

"Hello? Hello!"

There's no answer. Youngjae shifts his weight from foot to foot, and knocks again.

He glances down at his phone. There's zero reception here. That’s strange. It’s normally not too bad considering how far out in the country they are.

"Hello? Anyone home?" He hears something moving behind the door. "Hey! I just want to ask if your electricity is on." Nothing. No reply.

He waits another few minutes. It seems like an hour. He doesn't hear anything else moving behind the door. He looks back at the house once he gets to the car and the light is out.

Weird.

*****

Youngjae buys a cup of coffee in the convenience store. He sits on a stone bench in front of the tiny park in the center of town and drinks his coffee. He feels better after that. His stomach isn’t too thrilled at the cheap coffee, but at least he’s awake and an antacid will fix his sour stomach. There's no nation-wide blackout. All the lights are on here. Either the power is back on at his place, or it's still out because there's a downed line or a blown fuse or something. Something electric that is broken. He’s not exactly handy but he’s a smart guy. He can figure it out. He watches the children run in groups of twos and threes towards the elementary school. They wear bright rubber rain boots and matching ponchos in bright colors or decorated with popular characters. Youngjae wonders what Daehyun is doing. He doesn’t miss him, exactly. He’s just so used to knowing.

This little adventure still seems like a good idea but he's not feeling as sure as he had yesterday, when he'd stood on the sidewalk in front of Daehyun's apartment building and coolly kissed Daehyun.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he’d said. “I just need some time to figure things out for myself.”

He isn’t sure when he turned into a cliche.

Daehyun had kindly not laughed. No, Daehyun has only been understanding and patient. He’s got more than enough to worry about without Youngjae around, anyway. There's no reason Youngjae can’t pack up the car and go back to Seoul, except that to do so he'd have to admit that this whole thing is a silly, petty little piece of spite. He's not sure he can do that.

On the drive home he slows when he approaches the house at the foot of the hill. All the windows are dark now and it looks like nobody's set foot in the place in a hundred years. Maybe he’d been imaging the lights. He’s not in the best state of mind. He wouldn’t be here if he were.

Back at his grandmother's house, he finds the breaker box in the shed, behind broken furniture and boxes of old clothes. He resets the tripped breakers. The power had been on all along. He is an idiot. He makes a pot of strong coffee and sits at the kitchen table while it brews, staring out the windows. Daehyun probably would have thought to check the breakers. He’s good at things like that. Stupid Daehyun.

After two more cups of coffee, Youngjae feels slightly alive. He wanders through the house, comparing what he sees with his childhood memories. His memories do not fare well. In the 70s his grandfather had renovated the place, modernizing the kitchen and even installing a Western-style bathroom. At the time, these amenities had been the marvel of the neighborhood. Now they look very old and tired.

Nobody's lived here since his grandmother went to live with his uncle ten years ago. Signs of neglect are everywhere. Youngjae starts with the bedroom at the far end of the house, knocking down sheets of cobwebs and sweeping up thick mats of dust. He opens all the windows and lets in the damp cool fresh air. In the kitchen, he scrubs ancient grease off the stove, mops the floor, and cleans out the old fridge twice. He works harder than he has in a long time. The officitel he'd shared with Daehyun had been smaller than the kitchen in this place, and as life had gotten busier they'd hired a service to come in twice a month and do the hard cleaning. He doesn’t like cleaning, but he feels good when he finishes, like he’s accomplished something real for once.

He makes a cup of instant ramen for lunch and starts a list of things he needs from the store: light bulbs, a new broom and dustpan, detergent, more ramen. Everything is way more expensive out here than it would be in Seoul. He should have brought more with him, but this wasn’t a very well thought out adventure.

When he’s done eating, he calls Junhong just to hear someone’s voice.

"Hyung!" There's a lot of noise in the background. Junhong is a professional skateboarder, and he always seems to be in the middle of a lot of noise and color and excitement. Youngjae isn’t sure why they’re friends, but they are and have been since he first met Junhong years ago in college. "How is it? Are you sick of it already?"

"There was a storm last night and I lost power," Youngjae says. "I thought I was going to have to make a fire to cook my food. I knew I should have joined the scouts as a kid." It hadn’t been that bad, and he’s half joking, but there’s no reason he can’t feel a bit sorry for himself. Right?

"Intense," Junhong says seriously. "It's like you're on that survival entertainment program. Law of the Jungle, Yoo Youngjae edition."

Youngjae rolls his eyes. "I'll let you know when I have to resort to eating bugs."

"Please wait until after I come and visit to start eating bugs," Junhong says.

"Wow," Youngjae teases. "Choi Junhong is going to spare the time from his busy schedule to trek all the way out here to the ends of the earth?"

The house is two hours from Seoul by car but Youngjae plays along with the joke that he’s going to the ends of the earth.

Junhong huffs. "Don't be stupid. Of course I'll come visit you. You're going to be so bored without me."

Youngjae doesn't reply at first. On a normal Saturday night he and Daehyun would be making plans to meet with Junhong or one of their other friends for dinner or a night out at a bar or a club. Maybe Daehyun would have a slot playing at some open mic night somewhere, and Youngjae would tag along to cheer and provide moral support. If Junhong had a competition they’d go see him skate. Once in awhile they’d go to see a movie. It hadn’t seemed the most thrilling life.

Now he lives thirty minutes by car from the nearest bar and even further from the nearest movie theater, and neither of those are much to write home about.

"Yeah," he says. "I am." He sighs. He’s the one who decided to come out here and do something _real_ with his life, whatever he’d meant by that. He has to live with the consequences. “So what’s up with you? You’re in that competition tomorrow, right?”

He talks to a Junhong for a while longer, catching up like old friends even though they saw each other two days ago. After they say good night, Youngjae finds himself on the verge of calling Daehyun. It’s odd, not talking to him. It’s barely been twenty four hours they’ve been apart. He could call now -- he had said he’d call back yesterday, hadn’t he? But that would seem to defeat the purpose of this whole thing, so he doesn’t and goes to bed early instead.

*****

Youngjae gets up early the next morning and heads back into town with his list of supplies. He knows there will be many more trips like this one, as he figures out what's wrong with the house and what he needs to do to fix it, but he can get some more basic cleaning supplies and get started with tidying up at least. He packs the back of his car full of bags from the grocery store and hardware store and then stops at the little restaurant in town for lunch. He's supposed to be living frugally, but he can't eat ramen again.

It is raining softly by the time he heads out of town. Low slate clouds obscure the hills in the distance. Mist hangs over the rice fields. Youngjae is tired. Maybe he'll take a nap when he gets back to the house. He can't think of the last time he took a nap, but it sounds like the kind of thing people are supposed to enjoy. Maybe he really is a napper and just never knew it.

He’s almost home when the car lurches angrily. He thinks he’s hit something and drives another ten meters until he recognizes the clunka-clunk-clunk of a flat tire.

Fuck.

He comes to a stop, puts the car into park, and jumps out to inspect the damage. It’s a blowout.

Youngjae has never changed a tire in his life. He could call a garage ... but he's not even sure where the closest garage is. Of course his phone is dead.

He leans against the car and stares at the long flat expanse of green fields stretching back towards town. That's a half-hour walk, at least. This isn’t a well-traveled stretch of road. If he waits for a passing car, he's going to be waiting for a long time. Shit.

"Stupid phone," he mutters, but his heart isn't in it. He's just going to have to walk home, charge his phone, and then figure out where he can find a tow truck that will come out to the middle of nowhere.

He trudges along the side of the road with his head down. It's still raining. He has his sweatshirt wrapped around his head like some kind of misshapen hat but it's not doing much good. The road that winds up the hill doesn't seem so steep in the car, but walking is a different story. Youngjae isn't in great shape, and he's breathing hard and wiping sweat from his forehead in spite of the damp, chill weather.

He stops to take a breather. There's a low stone wall along the road, mostly tumbled down. He leans against it and takes out his phone again. It didn't magically recharge while in his pocket so of course it's still dead. The road climbs up and up, and he's still got a ways to go before he's home. He puts his phone away and starts off again, and then stops because he sees a light shining through the trees just beyond the bend in the road.

He thinks it's a car at first. He runs a few yards down the road, but it doesn't seem to come any closer. He frowns, and then keeps walking. It's not a car. It's the house -- the abandoned house at the foot of the hill -- and there are warm lights glowing not just in one window this time but in all of them.

He hesitates for a moment. This place is creepy in a way he cannot define. It doesn’t look dirty or neglected so much as just unbelievably old, so old it is hard to imagine anyone living here. Youngjae is not normally a risk-taker, but the thought of walking home in the rain is really, really unappealing. He’ll give it one more shot at seeing if anyone home. He steps through the gap in the wall where the gate should hang. The stone path leading to the front door is half covered in moss and it's slippery in the rain. Youngjae is wearing tennis shoes with very little traction. He slips, arms windmilling hilariously for a moment, and then falls.

“Fuck.” His right palm is red and and scraped raw and there is a tear in one of the knees of his jeans. The green grass stain is eclipsed by the blood welling quickly from the gash.

This day is really not going very well.

The front door is shut. Youngjae has a strange feeling of deja vu. _Here we go again!_ He knock. Waits. There's no response. What the fuck? Who lives in this place and what is their problem? "Hey! Is anyone there? I need some help!"

Nothing.

Youngjae sits down on the front step. His knee hurts like hell. Blood has run down his calf, sticking the fabric to his leg. Gross.

He stands up gingerly.

Behind him, the door creaks open.

Youngjae turns around. Despite all the light in the windows, the inside of the house is dark. He can't make out the person standing just beyond the threshold.

"Hello," he says. "Hello? I'm so sorry to bother you but I've got a flat tire and my phone is dead. I was just wondering if I could -"

"You're bleeding." The man steps forward into the light. He is startlingly handsome, with a heart-shaped face and beautiful amber eyes.. Youngjae thought anyone living here would be some ancient recluse. This is not at all what he expected.

Youngjae looks down. There _is_ a lot of blood, but he's fairly sure it looks worse than it is. "It's just a scratch," he says. "But if I could use your phone to call a garage I'll be out of ..."

The man smiles. It is charming. He's _really_ handsome. "It looks like more than a scratch," he says. "Listen, come inside. I’ll let you use the phone and even throw in a band-aid in the bargain. How does that sound?"

Youngjae still isn't sure what's going on here. Who is this guy? Does he live here, in this ancient ruin? But if he doesn't accept his offer he's going to have a long walk with a hurt knee in the rain, and that doesn’t sound like much fun.

"Okay," Youngjae says. "Uh, thanks. I'm Yoo Youngjae, by the way. I live in the house up the hill."

"Oh? I guess we’re neighbors then." The man smiles again, showing many very white teeth. "I'm Kim Himchan," he says. "It's nice to meet you, Youngjae.”

"Um," Youngjae says. "You too. Thanks."

Himchan leads him inside.

The interior of the house is not anything like what Youngjae expected. He's not sure what he had been expecting, actually. Dust and dated appliances, like his grandparents' house, maybe. Or maybe something even older: a preserved bubble of life from before the war, like in Namsangol Village.

And in a way it does remind of him of the quaint preserved hanok he's visited on school trips. The floors are wood and the walls are plaster. There are paper screens dividing the entrance way from the rooms beyond. But this looks like someone took those fundamentals of Korean architecture, mixed them vigorously with a dose of modernism and an appreciation for fine, expensive materials, and served them up as something totally new.

The back wall of this main room is all windows that look out onto the dark forest. The floors are imported wood that gleams richly. The ceilings are high, and there is a great impression of light and space. The furniture is simple, modern stuff, but Youngjae knows that the neat leather couch probably costs more than he makes in six months. This looks like the vacation home of one of the managers at the bank, and not at all like the ruin it seems from the outside. He really likes it.

"Wow," he says, impressed. Himchan watches him with a bemused smile. He must be used to this reaction. "You've done a lot of work here."

Himchan laughs. "I know," he says. "I thought I was never going to see the end of it. I started to think it was the construction crew's house, and I was the intruder ..."

Youngjae smiles at this little joke. "I thought ... I didn't know anyone lived here," He says. "I stopped the other day because I saw a light, but nobody answered."

"Ah," Himchan says. "I'm sorry. I must have left a light on. Honestly, I'm not here that often. I can't get away nearly as much as I'd like."

Youngjae nods. "I know that feeling."

"You do? I thought you were a local. You’ve got that ... rustic air about you." Himchan is teasing. Youngjae's accent gives him away as being from Seoul, of course.

"I'm just here on a ..." On a what? Is it a vacation? A retreat? A quarter life crisis? "I'm just staying in my family's house for a while. Going to do some work and clean it up."

Himchan perks up at this. "You'll have to tell me all about it," he says. "I love hearing about a good renovation." He glances down at Youngjae's leg. "After we get you cleaned up, of course."

As it turns out, there's no reception at Himchan's house either -- “It’s always terrible out here,” Himchan complains, “I called the phone company but they can’t do anything about it.” -- but he has the same type of phone as Youngjae and graciously allows Youngjae to borrow his charger. He also shows Youngjae to a spacious bathroom with grey slate floors and an enormous wooden soaking tub. He points out a drawer of bandages and household medicine and invites Youngjae to clean himself up.

Youngjae rolls up the torn leg of his jeans and wipes the scrape off with warm water. He spreads a little antibiotic ointment on it and covers it with two band-aids. He'll survive. He washes his hands and his face, and dries them with one of the very fluffy white towels. This place is like a hotel. Youngjae has never lived anywhere close to this nice. The apartment in Seoul is utilitarian and disorganized. Youngjae isn't the neatest person, and Daehyun hadn't cared enough to combat the clutter. They hadn’t had money for nice things. All their towels had been a gift from Youngjae's mother when they moved together, and at this point there isn't a single one that isn't bleach stained.

He feels a bit more composed when he rejoins Himchan in the living room.

"Thank you," he says again. "I really appreciate this."

Himchan waves a hand. "It's nothing," he says. "My pleasure. It's nice to get to know one of the neighbors, anyway. I bought this place three years ago and the ahjumma at the grocery store in town still treats me like a stranger."

"I knew her when I was a kid," Youngjae says, "and she still treats me like a stranger too."

Himchan grins. There's really something wild and charming about his smile. "Well, I guess I'm in good company then."

"So," Youngjae says. "What do you do in Seoul?"

Himchan looks at him for a moment, narrow-eyed and suspicious, but then the expression passes and he is smiling and genial again. "I'm a musician," he says. "I specialize in traditional percussion."

"Wow," Youngjae says. "You would get along really well with my friend Daehyun. He's a musician too."

"Oh?" Himchan asks. “And what does he do?”

"He sings and plays guitar. And waits tables."

"A man of many talents," Himchan says, dryly.

"Yeah," Youngjae says, and he hopes he doesn't sound too bitter. "He's got a very good voice. He's going to be releasing an album this fall, actually."

For a long time, Daehyun had worked part time jobs and busked in Hongdae on the weekends and waited for some fated chance. If things were fair, he'd be waiting still, but instead he'd been scouted last summer by a casting agent for a reality television show. He'd auditioned, charmed the judges, and become a minor national sensation before being eliminated in the penultimate round.

It's not really so surprising. Daehyun is talented and South Korea is big on audition programs. Everyone likes an underdog.

"I'd like to hear some of his music," Himchan says. Youngjae cannot tell if he's genuinely interested or if he's simply being polite.

"How did you become a traditional percussionist?" Youngjae asks, curious.

"It's something I've been interested in since I was young," Himchan says. “A friend encouraged the interest, and I had the chance to study under the best teachers."

"Wow. So do you dress up in traditional hanbok and perform at cultural festivals? My mom loves that kind of stuff.

"Sometimes," Himchan says, smiling. "But nowadays I'm usually composing. That's why I bought this place, actually. Easier to think out here."

"Yeah, I can see that," Youngjae says.

"So, what are you doing here?" Himchan asks. "You live in the house at the top of the hill, you said?"

Youngjae nods. "I'm ..." He pauses, thinking of how to phrase this in a way that doesn’t make him sound pathetic. He is, a little, but Himchan doesn’t need to know that. "I'm thinking of a change of career," he says. "I wanted some time to think, and my family had this house nobody was staying in. I'm staying for free, in exchange for doing some maintenance around the place."

"Doesn't seem like a fair trade to me," Himchan says. "These old houses need _a lot_ of work."

Youngjae shrugs. The maintenance thing is just a pretense. He shifts, careful not to get any blood on the clean, dark leather.

"I think I have an opt-out clause," he says. "My mother wasn't exactly thrilled that I came out here."

"No?" Himchan asks. "Why not?" He is calm and attentive. Casually, he brushes a long forelock back behind his ear. He moves in a very intent, graceful way that makes Youngjae feel clumsy even when sitting still.

Why is Youngjae always meeting such good looking guys? Where's the justice in that?

"She thinks I'm making a mistake," he says. "She thinks I shouldn't have quit my job."

"And why did you quit?" Himchan leans forward. He is sitting so that his knees are near Youngjae's. Youngjae shies away, holding himself stiff. He doesn’t want to get blood on Himchan either.

Youngjae shrugs. Daehyun hates when he does that -- evades answering, puts off the hard stuff. He sits up straighter. "I hated my job," he says, finally. "And I got passed over for a promotion."

Himchan wrinkles his nose, grinning. "If the first is true, shouldn't the second be a good thing?"

Youngjae laughs because Himchan does, but it's not funny. "It should," he says, quietly, "but even though I hated my job, I wanted to get the promotion. It made me miserable -- made me crazy -- but I wanted to be good at it, at least."

"And is that why you were passed up?" Himchan's voice is quiet. "Because you weren't good enough?"

Youngjae almost shrugs again and then catches himself. "No," he says, "I was good. Very good. And I worked hard."

Himchan waits, and then says, "Why, then?"

"The promotion went to the managing director's son-in-law," Youngjae says. It's been a month but he can still feel his skin start to get hot. Dwell too long on this and he'll boil over. That's why he doesn't talk about it. He never even told Daehyun why he quit, even though Daehyun must have had some idea. Younghae had told him about the promotion, about how he’d been sure he’d get it.

Himchan shakes his head, like it's just to be expected. "Patronage is a sickness of the system.”

"Very profound," Youngjae says, glad for some levity.

"I got that from my friend Yongguk," Himchan admits. "He's always ready with an inspirational quote."

"Ah," Youngjae says. He fidgets. His phone must be charged enough now. A beam of sunshine falls through one of the big windows onto the gleaming wood floors. It must be clearing up. “I think I’m going to head back to the car and see if I can get a tow truck out.”

“You never told me what it was you _did_ at this job you quit,” Himchan says, ignoring the last thing Youngjae said. He keeps his eyes on Youngjae’s and it is a little disconcerting.

"I worked at a bank," Youngjae blurts out, embarrassed. "It was really boring, honestly."

"It doesn’t sound boring to me," Himchan says. "You'll have to tell me more the next time you visit.”

“Okay,” Youngjae says. “Sure. I’d like that.” Himchan is just being polite, though. Who would really want to hear more about Youngjae’s boring office job?

He smiles and Himchan smiles too, and Youngjae feels a warm flame kindle in his heart. Right. Friends. They’re a good thing.

*****

It is late afternoon before Youngjae gets home. He calls a garage when he gets back to the car, but then there's a long wait under the increasingly hot sun before the mechanic arrives. He is abashed when the mechanic jacks up his car, takes off the old tire, and pops on the new one in under fifteen minutes. He should have joined the scouts as a kid like his hyung. Is that where you’re supposed to learn this stuff?

"Come down to the garage tomorrow," the mechanic says, wiping his hands clean. "We can see about getting you a new tire."

Youngjae nods, unhappy about having to spend more money. He's got savings, but if he'd wanted to use up his nest egg he'd have gone someone a lot more excited than some backwater farming town. This was supposed to be an economical quarter life crisis.

Everything is quiet at the house. The sun is down behind the hills, and the evening air is cool. Youngjae makes himself a dinner of fried eggs and rice. He eats outside on the porch, watching the sky turn pink and then mauve and then navy. He washes the dishes and dries them. Then opens a bottle of beer and goes back to the porch to watch the fireflies in the garden. Everything is calm and still. Very peaceful. This is supposed to be nice, right?

It is nice, but it's not a lot of fun. Youngjae wonders what Daehyun is doing, but he doesn’t call.

He goes to sleep early. He's getting more sleep out here than he's gotten in years. It's strange to wake up and feel rested and ready to face the day. He heads into town after breakfast, driving slowly on the spare. The man at the garage has the tire he needs in stock, but it seems like it’s going to take a while for him to get to Youngjae’s car. Rather than wait in the garage and talk about tractor engines with the mechanic and his other customers, who are obviously knowledgeable about such things, he heads off on a walk towards the center of town. It’s a quiet morning, with people here and there on their way to work or to the market to do their shopping.

Youngjae heads to the market himself. It’s small but busy. He remembers visiting with his grandmother as a child and thinking this was the most amazing place in the world. He lingers over cases of fresh seafood. Maybe he’ll buy something and actually cook dinner tonight. The busy people with tasks in mind give him dirty looks. One particularly grumpy old woman shoves him so hard he goes flying right into a young man with a cup of coffee, which spills all over the ground.

“I’m so sorry,” Youngjae stammers.

“No worries,” the man says. “I didn’t need the caffeine anyway.” He is little shorter than Youngjae and a little bit younger with an open honest face and a mole on his nose.

“I’ll buy you another cup,” Youngjae says.

“No,” the man says. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t know you, do I?”

Youngjae shakes his head. “I just got to town.” He tries to dust off the dirt on his jeans.

"Not often we see a new face around here," the man says, smiling. "I'm Jongup. Nice to meet you."

Youngjae smiles and shakes his hand. "Nice to meet you too," he says.

"So did you get lost?" Jongup has a pleasant, mild voice, and a kind smile. "Most people don't mean to end up here."

Youngjae laughs. "No," he says. "I actually ... my grandparents lived here, years ago. I'm staying in their house for a while." He frowns. “Are you sure I can’t get you another cup of coffee?”

Jongup considers. “How about odeng instead? It’s almost lunch time. Kinda.”

Youngjae smiles. “Sure,” he says. “You lead the way.”

They weave through the market, which isn’t as large as Youngjae remembers. The odeng lady has a cart on the far street. She has a small queue in front of her cart, which bodes well.

“She’s the best,” Jongup says. “I’ve tried them all in this town.”

“You’re from town, huh?”

“Yup,” Jongup said. I’ve lived here all my life.”

When they get to the front of the line, Youngjae places their order.

"So, your grandparents lived around here?” Jongup says while they wait for their food. “What's your last name?"

"It's Yoo," Youngjae says, "But the house is in my mother's family -- Kang."

"Ah, Kang?” The street cart ahjumma has been listening on on their conversation. “The house out on the hill? I knew your grandparents well. I used to sell odeng to your mother when _she_ was a little girl.” She hands over Youngjae's order of odeng, smiling. "If you like that, I'll give you another order."

"Thank you," he says, sincerely.

He hands Jongup his own order, and they go sit at one of the little plastic tables. "Kang ... the house out in the hills?"

Youngjae nods, surprised. "Do you know it?"

"Oh yeah," Jongup says. "My grandfather was a shamen. He knew all of the local families. Before he passed away he used to bring me along when he went visiting."

"Wow," Youngjae says. He's never really believed those old mystic rituals himself, but he knows his grandmother used to. "So you must know the area really well, I guess?"

Jongup nods. "Pretty much as well as anyone," he says. "I'm working for the district now, doing maintenance. I head out your way pretty often. Nice out there. Lots of ghosts."

Youngjae chokes on a mouthful of fish cake. "What?"

"Lots of ghosts out your way," Jongup says, conversationally. "The whole mountain is infested with ghosts. My grandfather had a story about a woman throwing herself into the river after a scoundrel broke her heart. Ghosts all over the place since then."

Youngjae frowns. "Well, I'd rather have an infestation of ghosts than an infestation of mice or something."

Jongup shrugs. "If you don't bother them, they won't bother you," he says. "For the most part." He grins.

"I'll keep that in mind." Ghosts are pretty far down on Youngjae's list of things to worry about, mostly because they’re not real.

Jongup finishes up his odeng and checks the time on his phone. “I’ve gotta get going .. there’s a downed tree five miles outside of town I’ve got to clean up. Nice to meet you, Youngjae" he says. "I'll drop by the next time I'm up by your place.”

He smiles broadly, revealing slightly buck teeth.

"Okay," Youngjae says, smiling too. Under a week and he's almost made a second friend. He doesn’t remember it being this easy in Seoul.

On his way home that afternoon, Youngjae is almost overwhelmed with the urge to stop as he approaches Himchan's house. He finds himself thinking about Himchan often -- about his smile and his golden eyes and the way he had listened to Youngjae’s every word so carefully, like he really cared about what Youngjae had to say. Youngjae loves Daehyun and that isn’t going to change, but he is fascinated by Himchan in a way he has not ever been by anyone before. Is it too forward, showing up uninvited again so soon? Will Himchan think he’s weird? He slows nearly to a stop, but all the windows are dark. Maybe Himchan is not home. Youngjae puts the car back into drive and continues home, pretending he’s not disappointed.

It's another long evening along. The house is coming along. All the rooms are clean now, but empty, which makes it feel like a corporate apartment or very generic long term rental.

It shouldn't feel that way. This is the house where his mother was born and where his grandfather was born and a whole line of Kangs before them. That's supposed to mean something, right? He's supposed to have some revelation about family or history or belonging or _something_ , isn't he? Staring at the dusty old shelves, he feels no revelation coming on.

Maybe he'll bring up some furniture in from the garage. Maybe that will help.

Daehyun calls that night, after Youngjae has eaten dinner. His cell phone startles him when it rings.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Daehyun says. "So have you gotten dysentery yet?"

Youngjae rolls his eyes. "I do have modern plumbing," he says.

"Oh right," Daehyun says, sounding a little disappointed. "Have you had to fend off any attacks by wolves or wild raccoons or- ?"

"I saw a mouse," Youngjae says. "It was nesting in one of the kitchen cabinets."

"Gross," Daehyun says.

"Yeah," Youngjae says. He'd cleaned that cabinet out four times. "How's recording going?"

"Fine," says Daehyun, but he offers nothing more. "What have you been up to?"

"Nothing much, honestly. I got a flat tire. I met one of the neighbors."

"You have _neighbors_?"

“Haha,” Youngjae says. “Very funny. I have one neighbor. His name is Kim Himchan. Nice guy."

"Hmm," Daehyun says. "And that's it? A neighbor, a tire, a mouse?"

Youngjae thinks. Is there anything else to mention?

"That's it," he says. There’s going to be more eventually. There’s got to be. “So tell me what’s new with you. How is recording going?”

*****

It's another two days before he gets back down to Himchan's place. The next day he decides to do laundry, which means figuring out how the ancient washer machine works. There's no dryer, so after the wash is done he hangs it all out on the droopy clothes line in the garden. He starts reading a book while waiting for it to dry, and by the time he looks up, stomach rumbling, he realizes it's four o'clock and he's been reading for five hours.

Time moving in strange ways. He hasn’t fallen into a book like this since he was a kid. It’s nice.

He wakes up the following morning and the air feels deliciously fresh. A front has moved through. The weather is dry and cool. Youngjae pulls on a sweater. He can't think of anything in particular to do so around noon he sets out down the road (wearing hiking boots this time) toward Himchan's house. He's halfway down before it occurs to him that he should have brought something to express his gratitude -- a jar of his mother’s kimchi if he had one, or a bottle of wine. Himchan seems like a wine-drinker. But there are no wine stores around. He'll have to pick something up the next time he goes into town.

The lights are off again and Youngjae wonders if Himchan isn't home. He didn't see a car on his last visit, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. Himchan has got to get out here somehow, right? He knocks, waits, and is about to leave when the door opens.

Himchan smiles at him. "Youngjae! Hello!"

Youngjae doesn't know how he missed it last time, but Himchan's hair is loose and long, falling in a silky black sheet halfway down his back. Had he had it tied up last time?

"Hey," he says. "I was just passing by and I thought I'd stop."

He hopes that doesn't sound like an obvious lie.

"Did you walk here?" Himchan asks, looking around.

Youngjae nods. "It's such a nice day out."

Himchan makes a quiet noise of agreement. "It is," he says. "I was just sitting out back, actually. Why don’t you come join me?”

He leads Youngjae through the house, which is divided into more tiny rooms than Youngjae would have guessed. Some are dark, and some are full of light, and it's disorienting. Himchan probably paid a fortune to have some prestigious architect design the conceit. Finally, they step out onto a wide covered porch overlooking a wide field full of wildflowers. In the distance, the stream sparkles in the sunlight. Beyond that the treeline is a dark wall.

"Wow," Youngjae says.

"Now you see the reason I bought this place," Himchan says, proudly.

"It's like a ... a little secret world back here," Youngjae says. He frowns at how stupid that sounds.

Himchan just laughs. "Exactly!" he says brightly. “My own little world.”

There is a set of incongruous patio furniture at one end of the veranda -- cheap plastic stuff that doesn’t look like it belongs in this beautiful place at all. Himchan invites Youngjae to sit and then bustles away inside the house. The warm sun feels good on Youngjae’s face, and the warm wood feels good underfoot. The wild garden is golden. Bits of dandelion fluff bob along in the breeze. The sunlight is so rich and bright it looks like something you could reach out and grab hold of. Kind of like a dream, Youngjae thinks.

Himchan is back quickly with a bottle of soju, glasses, and some dried squid.

"It's so nice back here," Youngjae says, accepting the glass that Himchan hands him.

"It is," Himchan says, pouring a glass for himself. "It would turn me into a homebody, if I weren't one already."

Youngjae smiles. "Not like there's much to do around here."

"My plan was to buy a house somewhere so boring it would force me to work," Himchan says.

"How's that working?" Youngjae asks, grinning.

"If the weather's bad, just fine. On a day like today ..." Himchan shrugs. "So, you were going to tell me more about your job."

Youngjae frowns. Hadn't he told Himchan? "It's nothing really interesting," he says. "I got a degree in business administration and got a job at a financial firm. I stayed with the company for six years, and then I quit."

"Six years? You don't look old enough to have worked anywhere for six years." Himchan narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"I'm going to be _thirty_ in a few years," Youngjae says dourly. It's not old, not really at all, but it just _sounds_ so old. "And now I'm unemployed."

"You're still a child," Himchan says dramatically, although he doesn't look more than a few years older than Youngjae. "You have forever to figure out what you want to do."

"Tell that to my mom," Youngjae says. "She thinks I've thrown away my future."

"It's a mother's job to worry," Himchan. He takes a sip of soju, refills his glass, and then pours for Youngjae. "What do you want to do?"

Youngjae downs his glass, relishing the burn in the back of his throat. "I don't know," he says, eager for loose easiness of inebriation.

Himchan leans back in his chair. "So you didn't quit to pursue your secret dream of becoming a professional juggler or something?"

Youngjae laughs. A bird is circling far, far overhead. "No," he says. "No, of course not." He runs his finger around the edge of his empty glass. "It wasn't really bad. I didn't mind my job. I liked it, sometimes."

"That sounds like a ringing endorsement: 'It was sometimes tolerable'." Himchan smiles.

"Not everyone's job is their passion," Youngjae says, a little annoyed.

"I know," Himchan says smoothly. "So what's yours?"

"What?"

Himchan refills his glass, and then Youngjae's. "What's your passion?"

Youngjae tries to remember the last time he felt strongly enough about anything for it to be considered passion. Even with Daehyun, it hasn't been like that in a long time. "I don't know," he says. He feels like the most boring person in the world.

Himchan refills their glasses again. "What do you want, then?" His voice is not especially deep, but there is something engaging about it. Youngjae likes listening to him talk.

Youngjae shakes his head and downs the drink. The bird is still circling far overhead. The breeze has died down and the sun is starting to feel too hot. "I don't know," he says again. His head is spinning a little. Too much alcohol. He's never held his soju well. "Everything was pretty good, you know? But it felt like _nothing_."

"I understand," Himchan says. "The world starts to look gray."

Youngjae nods. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, exactly. Like everything was good but instead of being _real_ it was all just kind of ... washed out. And I didn't care any more." He pours himself another glass of soju. "Daehyun didn't feel like that. He never felt like that. Something is wrong with me."

"Daehyun is your musical friend?" Himchan asks.

Youngjae nods. "Boyfriend," he says, forgetting his normal caution. He’s not slurring but his words are coming out thick and syrupy now. "Don't even know why I'm telling you this. Guess you're not going to break my face for it, though."

Himchan shakes his head. "I would never do anything like that," he says, seriously.

Youngjae hadn’t thought so, somehow. He keeps talking. It feels good to say this. All of his friends are Daehyun’s friends in common, so he could never talk to them about this kind of thing. "Daehyun always wanted us to have names for each other. Call each other lover or something. He kept thinking things would change and we could have our fairytale wedding." He snorts. "His fairytale wedding, anyway."

"And you didn't want to get married?" Himchan asks.

"I did," Youngjae said, "because I knew it would make him so happy."

"Isn't that what being in love is all about?" Himchan's eyes are so dark they look like drops of ink. "Caring so much you'll do something for the other person just because you know it brings them joy?"

"Yeah, I guess," Youngjae says, and he knows that it is, but for a long time he's only known that in his head and not in his heart. "Doesn't matter. Not like we can get married anyway."

They can't even talk about their relationship to anyone other than their closest friends and family. When they'd come to the apartment to film some interview clips when Daehyun had been on the audition program, Youngjae had been introduced as his 'roommate'.

"So you're the pragmatic type," Himchan says. He brushes his long hair out of his face. There's something strange about that gesture Youngjae can't put his finger on. There's another bottle of soju. Himchan opens it and pours. "I respect that."

"But?" There's some unspoken question.

"There has to be something you dream about," Himchan says. "Something you really want."

Youngjae closes his eyes. "I want to figure it out. What I want to do. What makes me happy. All that bullshit. That's what I want."

Himchan laughs, loud and booming. "You all make it so difficult. It's not so hard. Just do what feels good."

Youngjae sloshes the half inch of soju around in his glass. He feels disoriented and strange. This isn't his life, is it? Drinking before two o'clock in the garden of an almost-stranger. Two weeks ago, and for so many weeks before that, he would have been at the office rushing to finish up some work before he took lunch. Isn’t this what he imagined when he felt like working in the office was draining all the life force from him? And yet he is still fighting this gray feeling of despair even in this magical place. It is creeping up at the edges of his vision, drawn out by Himchan’s question.

“I don’t know,” Youngjae says. “It’s not that easy, is it? I should be happy. I had a good job, a good life.”

“Isn’t it?” Himchan says, grinning. “Doesn’t this feel better than reviewing expense reports would? Isn’t that enough.”

The golden summer light sparkles and Youngjae feels like he could slide into the delicious heat. The soju is sharp on his tongue. "Yeah," he says. “It really does." It’s a relief, like letting out a long-held breath.

They finish two more bottles of soju. The sun moves from behind the house to right over head to sinking towards the tops of the trees. Youngjae is not sure what they talk about. Oh, many things: about when he was a kid, about his brother, about his parents and his friends. Himchan asks so many questions. It's been a long time since anyone has been this interested in Youngjae. He's not sure anyone ever has. He relishes it.

"So you wanted to be a singer?" Himchan asks. His cheeks are flushed red.

Youngjae blinks, slowly. "Yeah," he says. "Yup. I mean, when I was a kid I wanted to be a professional gamer. But later, yeah. I wanted to be a singer. I even trained in a famous agency."

"Wow," Himchan says. "Do you know any celebrities, then?"

"Oh yeah," Youngjae says. His glass is empty and no more soju has been forthcoming. That's a shame. "My friends Jinyoung and Jaebum. They debuted in this group ... But I guess you don't know much about idol music, do you?"

Himchan shakes his head. "It's not my area of specialty, unfortunately."

"Well, they debuted, and their group did pretty well. Broke up a few years ago now, of course, when they had to enlist." Youngjae hasn't talked to either of them in years, of course. He's not even sure they'd remember him. Still, he remembers those months he spent training to become an idol fondly, and always followed their careers with interest. It's nice, knowing some people get to live their dreams.

"Why didn't you debut?" Himchan asks. He is curling a strand of his hair around his finger, twining it and twining it.

"I left the company," Youngjae says, shrugging.

"Why?" Himchan's eyes hold his.

"They weren't going to debut me quickly enough. Kept stringing me along," Youngjae says, shrugging. It's hard to explain, now. It's hard even to _remember_. He'd been seventeen years old. Half his fucking life ago.

"And after that?"

"My parents gave me one shot," Youngjae says. "Then I had to be a good boy and go to college."

"And?"

Youngjae shrugs. "And that was it."

Game over. Welcome to the real world. After he left JYP, he never even considered majoring in music in college. He concealed the fact that he’d joined a community choir group from everyone, afraid they’d realize that the dream hadn’t quite been quashed. That had just been a hobby, one abandoned as he’d gotten busier, first with school and then work. But the choir is also where he met Daehyun, so it was not all in vain.

Himchan narrows his eyes. "Couldn't audition for a ... a program? Like your friend Daehyun?"

Youngjae shrugs. Of course he _could_ have, but he isn't the type of person to waste his time. He’s seen how much Daehyun struggled before that one fortuitous lucky break. He has a career.

 _Had_ a career.

"I haven't really sung in years," Youngjae says. "I'm no good any more."

Himchan smiles. "I want to hear," he says. "Sing me something."

Youngjae's insides squirms. "No," he says. "Come on, I'm not ..."

"Just sing something," Himchan says. "Anything. Whatever comes to mind."

 _Nothing_ comes to mind, honestly, but Youngjae turns so he's looking out at the yard instead of at Himchan and sings the first verse of the song that won him first place at that JYP audition, so long ago.

Himchan watches him with a focused expression, and when Youngjae is done he applauds politely.

"Beautiful," he says. "You have a lovely vocal color."

Youngjae shrugs. "I'm really out of practice." It is trying to ride a bicycle after not doing so for years and years. He remembers how, but the motions are all stiff and awkward. "I want to hear you play," he says, suddenly.

Himchan looks down at his lap, and when he looks up his eyes are bright. "It's not much to hear, on it's own," he says. "Without the full arrangement."

"Come on," Youngjae says. "I sang for you."

"Okay," Himchan says. “If you insist.”

Himchan leads him into a large white room in the back of the house. Here too there are big windows open to catch the sun. Himchan motions for him to sit, so he sits by the wall and waits. Fifteen minutes later Himchan comes back with a double-headed drum. He kneels in the middle of the room, not facing Youngjae. He settles the drum in front of him. He pushes his hair out of his face, and starts to play.

It starts with a steady beat, quiet and constant, someone moving slowly and with direction through a dark, still place. Then the rhythm changes. An extra beat, a pause, something jumping and bounding. A cloud passes in front of the sun and the room is thrown into shadow. Himchan's head is bowed low. It doesn't seem possible that so much music could come from just one person with a drum.

The beat slows, quiets, and then bursts back. It takes Youngjae a moment to realize because he is so focused on the rhythm, but Himchan is chanting, quietly, in a language that Youngjae does not know or cannot understand. The words are harsh, growled in the back of his throat, and they fit so smoothly with the music that maybe they are not words at all, just wild noise. Youngjae closes his eyes and doesn't intend to think of anything but the picture comes unbidden: a fox, bounding through the dark undergrowth in a forest of impossibly tall trees. It chases something, and he can almost smell what the fox does: damp earth, and blood, and the fear of the small helpless thing being chased. It is thrilling. It makes him want to dance, and scream, and ...

And the song is over. He opens his eyes. He is still sitting, but his hands are clenched into fists. He flexes his fingers. Himchan is watching him, smiling. "Did you like it?" He asks.

"Yes," Youngjae says. He feels disoriented, like he's just woken up. He really did drink more than he should have. "You're amazing. That was like … like magic."

It’s a childish thing to say, and he feels stupid as soon as he says it.

But Himchan's smile broadens. "I know," he says.

*****

Youngjae is in the garden pulling weeds when his phone rings. It is a hot, bright day, and he wears a pair of cut off shirts and a tee shirt that is now dirty with sweat and mud. He wipes his forehead with the back of a forearm and takes off the gloves he's wearing.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

It's Daehyun.

"Hey," Youngjae says.

"So you're alive," Daehyun says, sounding peeved.

"So far," Youngjae says.

"I wasn't sure," Daehyun says, "since you haven't called me in a week."

Has it been that long? "Sorry," Youngjae says. "I've been pretty busy."

"Well try to pencil in a little time between hoeing the radish field and re-thatching the roof to give me a call, would you?" Daehyun sounds annoyed.

"I will," Youngjae says. It's really hot. He misses air conditioning. "How's recording going?"

"Good," Daehyun says, reflexively. "I mean, it's going okay, I guess."

"What happened?" Youngjae can tell when Daehyun is upset. Daehyun thinks he can hide it, but he's so obvious.

"The producer has all these ideas," Daehyun says, and Youngjae can picture the way he's wrinkling his nose in distaste. "I mean, I know he's a professional and everything, but it's not like I'm some kid. I've been singing these songs for years and now he wants to come in and change everything up and ..."

Youngjae closes his eyes and listens to Daehyun rant for a while. Daehyun's complaining is always something that drove Youngjae crazy but he doesn't mind right now. It's comfortable and familiar.

"You know they're just trying to help," he says, at an appropriate interval.

"I know," Daehyun says exhaustedly. "But ... I mean, the songs are good. The judges said they were good. Yoon Jong Shin and Yoo Hee Yeol said they were good. I don't know why they have to go and change everything."

"They're not changing everything, I'm sure," Youngjae says.

"No," Daehyun admits. "But ..."

"Daehyun," Youngjae says. "They're good. You know the songs are good. These people are just going to help you make them better. You know that."

"I know," Daehyun says, defeated. There is a moment of silent. "I don't even know why I call you when I know you're going to be all logical and mature about things."

"It's what you love about me," Youngjae says, before he can stop himself. He closes his eyes, startled at the sudden throb of pain in his chest.

"Yeah," Daehyun says, and he sounds funny. "Well."

"I'm planting a garden," Youngjae blurts out, hoping to fill the awkward space he's created between them.

"Really? Like, digging in the dirt and everything?"

"Yeah," Youngjae says. "I mean, the garden is here. I'm just cleaning it out. I'm gonna add some more plants I guess."

"I don't believe it," Daehyun says. "I demand proof. Send me a selca."

"I'm gross right now," Youngjae says. "No way."

"Come onnn, Youngjae," Daehyun says. "I need a proof shot of your new farm skills."

Youngjae snorts. "I'd hardly call them farm skills."

"Well, whatever," Daehyun says. "Garden skills. Plant skills. Send a selca, or I'm going to publish that picture of you in the pink dress to Facebook."

"You _wouldn't_ ," Youngjae says, but he knows Daehyun would. "Ugh, fine."

"Ah, good boy, Youngjae-ya," Daehyun says. In the background, Youngjae can hear a door open and close. "Oh, listen, I've got to get back to work." His voice drops. "Call me though, okay? I mean ... I know we're not ... Just call me?"

"Okay," Youngjae says.

"Good," Daehyun says, and he hangs up.

Youngjae takes a few pictures. He's not good at it. Never has been. That's more Daehyun's skill. Each picture is more red-faced and ugly than the last. He picks the worst one, sends it to Daehyun, and then goes and plugs in his phone in the back bedroom before he starts weeding again.  


*****

"And you never thought you were doing the wrong thing?"

Youngjae is lying on his back with his hands behind his head, staring up at the blue sky. It is evening. Youngjae stopped at Himchan's house after a run into town that morning for some top soil, and Himchan invited him over for dinner. They grilled meat on the porch using a little tabletop grill and drank soju. Now, after eating, they are lying on the grass watching the sky. It's warm and very still, and cicadas rustle all around, invisible in the long grass.

"What?" Himchan asks. "The wrong thing?"

"With your music," Youngjae says. "Did you ever think, 'This isn't want I should be doing'. Before you got successful, I mean." He frowns. "Or maybe you were some kind of child prodigy and you never had to deal with crippling existential insecurity."

Himchan is lying beside Youngjae. He does not look over. Silhouetted against the sky, his profile is very crisp. Himchan is not handsome; that word is totally inadequate. Himchan is _beautiful_ , but not perfect. Youngjae likes his slightly too long upper lip, and his slightly too-big front teeth.

"I never thought that," Himchan says. "If music is what I like to do, why shouldn't I be doing it?"

Youngjae thinks maybe Himchan had a very privileged upbringing. That isn't the attitude of someone who had to worry about finding some way to make a living. "Lucky," Youngjae says. "I wish I had that certainty"

"No reason you can't," Himchan says.

"You sound like Daehyun," Youngjae says, annoyed. "He's always telling me I shouldn't worry so much."

"Well," Himchan says, "Why do you?"

"Worry?" Youngjae pulls a stem of grass from its sheath and shreds it. His fingernails are broken and dirty now, after a week of working in the garden. "We only have one shot, right? I just don't want to look back and realize I’ve made a mistake. I can’t do it over.”

Himchan is quiet for a long time. "What if you didn't have one shot?" He sounds distant. "What if you had forever? What would you do then?"

Forever? "I don't know," Youngjae says. "Try music again, maybe. Travel." He laughs. "I'd walk in a beauty contest. I'd become a chef. I don't know. If you have forever, does it even really matter what you do?"

The sun has set now, and the sky is dark blue, except for a glow behind the forest to the west. There are stars everywhere. The sky at night nearly makes up for all the many faults of this place. It's something you can never, never see in Seoul, where on the clearest nights the light pollution drowns out. There are so many stars, and staring too long makes Youngjae start to think of how small he is, lying on his back in a yard on a peninsula on one planet around one little star. It's scary, being able to see how much else is out there. Youngjae doesn't really like it. He doesn’t want _everything_. He just wants to find something for him.

It takes him a moment to realize that Himchan hasn't replied. Youngjae sits up. Himchan's eyes are closed, and his long hair is fanned out behind him.

"Hey," Youngjae says. "Himchan?"

There's no noise at all except for the whine of the cicadas.

"Himchan?"

He is asleep. Youngjae frowns. Should he wake him? Is that rude? It is late, and Youngjae is tired himself. He stands, and stretches. He'll leave Himchan a note, and let himself out.

He has been here ... oh, five times? Six times, now? He is not sure. Several times. Still, it takes him a long time to find his way back to the kitchen, through the winding empty corridors. There is something strange and unnerving about the white walls and sudden corners. In the kitchen, he opens drawer after drawer looking for a pen and paper, but all the drawers are empty. Youngjae frowns. It's odd, but then Himchan did say he'd just moved in. Still, shouldn't there be at least some utensils or something?

He finds a torn piece of paper on a table by the front door. It's thick, old paper, like something torn from a book. Youngjae scribbles a few words of thanks, and leaves it where it is by the door. Himchan will find it.

He shuts the front door behind him and shoves his hands in his pocket. He doesn't look back until he's in his car, turning on the engine and putting it into gear. The big old house is a dark shadow against the darker trees. You'd never know it is so full of light and beauty inside. Very strange.

It's not until he's almost home that Youngjae realizes that the strange thing is that he knows he left a light on in the kitchen, and yet all the windows of Himchan's house had been dark and blank and empty.

******

Youngjae is washing the kitchen floor when he hears a car pull up outside. It is startling. He rarely even hears cars drive past, and nobody has come to visit. He pauses, leaning his weight on the mop, wondering if he misheard.

  
But, no. There it is, the sound of a car door slamming shut.

Frowning, he walks out into the yard. “Hello?”

“Youngjae? Hello!” It is Jongup.

“Hi,” Youngjae says. “What are you doing up here?”

“Have to go check on an old couple that live up the road a way,” Jongup says. He is wearing coveralls with a name tag stitched over the breast. “I try to stop by at least once a week.” He looks around curiously. “So this is your place, huh?”

Youngjae nods. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s still kind of a mess, but I’m working on it.”

“Nah,” Jongup says. “It looks great. I love these old houses.”

“Why don’t you come in?” Youngjae says. “I can show you around.”

“I don’t have much time,” Jongup says. “But … well, as long as we’re quick.”

Youngjae shows him the garden, points out the work he’s done to clean out the beds and refresh the plantings. They enter the house through the kitchen, sticking to the unwashed half of the floor.

“I love the avocado green fridge,” Jongup says.

Youngjae laughs. “Yeah, my grandfather’s taste in appliances was a little questionable.”

“No, I’m serious,” Jongup says. “It’s got character.”

“Maybe I’ll replace it one day,” Youngjae says.

Jongup looks at him, surprised. “You’re staying here long term? I thought this was just a vacation or something.”

Youngjae is surprised himself. He hasn’t thought about it, really. Does he want to stay out here? Forever? He loves Daehyun, and Daehyun has to stay in Seoul for his career. Youngjae has to stay in Seoul, if he wants a career. And yet, he realizes, he has been making plans for the house that suggest long term inhabitation: redo the bathroom, new appliances, new windows and a new roof. Is that just a way of distracting himself from making plans about more important things?

“I don’t know,” he says. “I … I’m really not sure what I’m going to do.”

“Ah,” Jongup says, sounding a little disappointed. “Well, if you do stick around, I’d be glad to help you with some of the work.”

Youngjae says thank you, and he is thankful, but he is distracted and inattentive, consumed by his own thoughts. Even after Jongup leaves to get back to work, he can’t get himself to focus on anything. Stay here? Is that what he wants?

He wishes he knew.

*****

The forest is strange. Youngjae doesn't have much experience in the wilderness, if this even counts as such. He did his army service at a base an hour outside of Seoul. It was a bland, endless two years, and apart from a few friendships he still cherishes, he remembers increasingly little of it. As a kid, he went camping a few times, but those campgrounds were neat and orderly, each site marked out with pegs and string.

This place is dark and old and weird. It is the kind of place ghosts live in the stories his brother told him as a child, when they were close to sleep and Youngwon wanted to scare him. It's not a _bad_ place. Youngjae doesn't feel unsafe, and he's long since gotten over any childish fear of ghosts, but it's _strange_. It makes him feel like he does not belong.

Green light slips through the trees, and fast water slips over the mossy green rocks. Himchan has taken his shoes off. His toenails are long and sharp. Youngjae almost says something -- but who is he to question someone's personal grooming choices? They set the fishing poles down on the grass. Youngjae rolls up the legs of his jeans to mid calf. Himchan is wearing baggy coveralls and a ragged tee shirt. It looks incongruous on someone who is always so well groomed, but in retrospect Youngjae can't even remember what kind of clothes Himchan wore before. A lot of black, maybe?

The mud squelches undertoe. Himchan tosses Youngjae a rod. He grabs his own, and proffers a can of squiggling, bright red worms.

Youngjae grimaces.

Himchan grins. "They're not going to bite you."

"They're disgusting."

Himchan doesn't say anything. He takes the biggest, fattest worm from the can and impales it on the hook. He hands the can to Youngjae, who looks down at it in mock horror. Himchan climbs deftly onto the thick root of a tree that shoots out over the water. A huge rock a little downstream blocks the flow of the stream. The water has pooled here, dark and deep. The surface is black and smooth, broken only by the ripples made by a few nearly weightless bugs gliding across.

With the greatest reluctance, Youngjae selects a much smaller worm and, after considerable struggle, gets it on the hook. It wriggles feebly there, and Youngjae's stomach turns. Much less easily than Himchan had, he climbs up the slippery rocks and onto the little outcropping of root and dirt. It looks like it could easily crumble away.

"There you go," Himchan says, taking Youngjae's hand and helping him settle himself. His palms is surprisingly rough. It must be calluses, from drumming.

"I didn't really picture you as a fisherman," Youngjae says, trying to find a comfortable seat on the damp bark. "It kind of ruins the mysterious artist image."

"A person has to eat," Himchan says, laughing.

Youngjae doesn’t get what’s funny, but he likes hearing Himchan laugh. He’s not supposed to be here right now. He is supposed to be at home putting new insect netting in the doors and windows. The materials for that project are in the back of his car. But on his way home from town, almost without thinking he had stopped at Himchan's front drive and walked up the slippery, uneven front walk, and found Himchan preparing for a fishing trip. And because he would rather do almost anything than repair the screen doors (and because he likes spending time with Himchan so much) he had agreed when Himchan had invited him along.

"Do you go fishing a lot?" Youngjae asks, and then regrets it because it seems like the kind of thing you say just to break up silence.

"Sometimes," Himchan says. "I used to go with my father, a long time ago now."

"Oh," Youngjae says. He gets along well with his parents -- he needs to call his mother, in fact -- but he never went fishing with his father. "Did you grow up near the ocean?"

"No," Himchan says, flicking the rod so that the string dances in the water. "I'm from the mountains. This place kind of reminds me of it, actually."

"Oh," Youngjae says. "Daehyun did. He's from Busan -- not that you'd know. He lost his accent a long time ago."

"Does he like to fish?" Himchan asks.

"Hates it," Youngjae says. "We went out a few times with his older brothers, though. It was ... nice."

It _had_ been nice. They'd gone out on a chartered fishing boat and drank beer and gotten sun burns. He'd caught three fish and had felt a little thrill of satisfaction watching the captain skin them when they got back to the dock.

"Nice, huh?" Himchan says. "Coming from you that's a ringing endorsement."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Youngjae frowns. "It was nice."

"Nothing," Himchan says, off-handedly. "You're just sparing with praise."

"That's a nice way to put it," Youngjae says, quietly. He's heard this before, of course. During fights, one of Daehyun's favorite complaints is that Youngjae is too critical. Does he think he's better than everyone? Is there anything Daehyun can do that will make him happy? He's heard many variations on that theme.

"There's nothing wrong with having high standards," Himchan says. "As long as you're willing to give things a fair chance."

"I am," Youngjae says. He's trying, anyway.

It's another slow fifteen minutes before Himchan finally catches something. The tip of his rod bends suddenly towards the flat black surface of the water. Himchan stands up. The line is stretched tight. There's a flash of silver in the water. Youngjae leans forward to get a better look.

"Ah," Himchan says. "This must be a water spirit."

"What?" Youngjae must have misheard.

"A water spirit or the hoary grandfather of fish," Himchan replies, although he is distracted by his contest with the fish.

Youngjae leans further still, hoping to get a better look, fairly sure he'll see the rainbow gleam of scales and nothing more. His toes dangle into the cold water. Himchan growls, low in his throat. Everything is dim, like the light is retreating.

Suddenly something ice cold and very strong closes around Youngjae's ankle. He gasps, but before he can say anything he is being pulled down. He grabs for the bark, for the straggly grass that hangs down towards the water, for anything, but his fingers slip on the wet, dark earth. There is no purchase. He hits the water and gasps, and then he is under.

Slimy, dank things lick his bare feet. The fiercely strong hold on his ankle has not relaxed. He flails. The water is so cold it burns, and the fishing hole is much deeper than it looked, because he is sinking and sinking and he can't feel anything underfoot. He opens his eyes. There is a terrible white face staring at him, baring rotten teeth, hair a nest of rotten weed and fishing line, and too-long arms with sharp black nails grasping. Youngjae screams, but there is no sound down here. The cold rushes in as soon as he opens his mouth and everything starts to go numb.

Then there is an explosion of bubbles as something large and heavy drops into the water. Youngjae can't see, can't breath. The thing clamped around his ankle like a vice burns. Something bright and gleaming moves through the water. Youngjae can't make anything out. He squeezes his eyes shut again, which is almost more than he can manage. He can't think, can't move. Everything is cold and dim and getting more so. He feels something ... hands on his shoulders? The pain on his ankle surges, and then diminishes. He is suspended in the cold water, floating, alone ...

There is only darkness. He can't breath. Everything is dark and dead and still. His eyes are open but the only thing he can see is a brilliant white globe, glowing like a small sun against the backdrop of dull, shadowy nothing. Youngjae can't breath. He is falling further and further away. Someone takes his hand, and the bright globe moves closer, until it is shining right before his face. He can't look away. It moves closer still, filling all his field of vision. Then there is nothing but white, pure and gleaming, and he knows nothing more.

When he opens his eyes, he is lying on the bank of the stream. He is soaking wet, and very cold. His ankle hurts, and he can't seem to catch his breath. He stares up at the green roof of leaves. It's not dark now. The light is bright and green, filtering through the canopy of trees.

"Are you okay?"

Youngjae tries to lift his head but it feels very heavy. Himchan is crouching a few feet away. His head is ducked. Youngjae cannot see his face. His long hair falls like a curtain.

"I'm ..." Youngjae puts a hand on the wet earth to prop himself up. "I'm okay."

Himchan turns to look at him and ...

Youngjae's heart throbs in his chest. This isn't ...

His eyes are golden with narrow slit pupils. A red tongue lolls from his mouth. Two ears covered in black soft fur jut from under the curtain of his hair.

"You're ... " Youngjae can't get the words out. He feels cold again now. This isn't right. This is a bad dream. Himchan is supposed to be his friend.

Himchan grins. His canine teeth gleam. "I'm a gumiho," he says. "Surprise."

*****

Youngjae opens his eyes. It is morning, and the thin light spills across the floor. He loves mornings here. The silence is so enormous, and he can wake up in his own time. No alarms, no schedule to worry about. He sleeps better here than he has in years.

But today he does not feel good. His back is sore. He dreamed last night -- a horrible dream, but it is fading already. He just remembers the cold, and the choking breathlessness, and some terrible searing pain around his ankle. He sits up. The blanket falls down to his waist. His head spins and he scrubs a hand across his face.

Youngjae tries to stand. Pain runs up his left leg, and his ankle gives out.

"Fuck." His eyes are watering. He throws back the blankets.

There is an evil purple bruise all the way around his ankle in exactly the shape of a long-fingered hand.

Youngjae remembers, then, leaning out over the water as Himchan wrestled with a fish. He remembers falling -- no, being pulled down into the water. He remembers the pale horrible face he'd seen, and the long grasping claws, and the drifting lank hair.

And he remembers _Himchan_ , looking at him with animal eyes and an animal grin.

"Fuck," Youngjae says again. He's never liked this kind of thing. He's not the kind of person who enjoys scary movies. He doesn't believe the government is hiding secret evidence of aliens. He doesn't believe in fortune telling and has never seen a ghost.

Until now, right? Because that's what Himchan said it was.

"Water ghost," he'd said. Water dripped from his long hair, and he shook, vigorously, making it fly. "I didn't think it would come bother us. It’s getting bold."

Youngjae hadn't been able to think of anything at all to say. He had been ill -- shaking from the cold so that his teeth chattered. Even after minutes passed and the normal sounds of the forest returned, the trembling hadn't stopped. Himchan had looked at him closely, pressed a hand to his forehead, taken his pulse, and then there was a little glowing ball sitting in the palm of his hand. It was no bigger than a egg, but it swirled with beautiful light.

Himchan brought his hand to his mouth and blew. Some of the pearlescent light was caught on his breath. It settled on Youngjae's exposed face, his hands, his neck, as light and weightless as pollen, and then it sank down into his skin. Something strange and fierce and wild ran through Youngjae's veins for a moment, a white hot fire that didn't burn out fast, but smoldered. Strength returned to his limbs. His hands stopped shaking. His leg ached, still, but it was a normal pain now, not the deathly cold horror that had filled him before.

"There you go," Himchan said. "All better." He glanced at Youngjae's ankle, and frowned. "Well, almost."

Himchan had grinned, baring long canine teeth, and something inside Youngjae had seized up.

Youngjae doesn't remember much of what happened after that. He remembers pulling back from Himchan's touch and climbing to his feet, pain be damned. He remembers running through the woods, stumbling and crashing through brush. He had gotten lost. It had taken him ages to find the house. He had heard beasts chasing him, or imagined that he had. Late, when the sun was almost down, he had scrambled into his car and rested his head against the steering wheel.

Looking back, the lights had been on at Himchan's house.

He had driven home and he had gone to sleep. He is still wearing the same clothes. They have dried now, stiff and stinking of pond water.

Fuck.

Is he supposed to be scared? Is that the right reaction to this kind of thing? Is he possibly losing his mind? He closes his eyes. He doesn't feel scared. The only thing he feels is regret. Himchan saved his life and Youngjae ran away.

He's good at that.

He goes back to sleep for a while. When he wakes again it is hot and insects are buzzing outside. Youngjae's ankle still aches. It still is not a dream.

He drags himself into the kitchen and makes coffee. It's another hazy, perfect day. Youngjae wonders if it will rain later. After coffee and toast, he showers. He feels much better after that. His ankle hurts still, but aspirin help, and the shower seems to wash away some lingering miasma of pain and filth. He puts himself through the paces, but he doesn’t feel well. He feels like there is something moving in the corner of his vision, but he can never quite see what it is. There’s something going on behind the flat bland surface of reality that Youngjae can’t and shouldn’t be able to see, but he has seen it, and now he can’t ignore it.

He wonders if Himchan is okay. He hadn't seemed hurt.

Himchan is a fucking gumiho. Can they even get hurt? He never paid attention to those stories his grandmother used to tell.

He puts on his big floppy hat (to keep the sun off his neck) and weeds in the garden for several hours. It isn’t hard work, and he can keep the weight of his leg, but it is physical and distracting and that’s exactly what he needs now.

He makes a bowl of instant ramen for lunch and eats it on the porch. Youngjae doesn’t mind the quiet, normally, but today he wishes there were someone to talk to.  
  
He calls Daehyun.

“Hey,” he says.

“Youngjae!” Daehyun sounds breathless. There is a lot of noise in the background. “You haven’t forgotten me!”

Youngjae snorts. “Of course I haven’t. How are you?”

“Good,” Daehyun says. “I think. Youngjae, I’m at a photoshoot for my album jacket.” His voice is hushed and amazed.

Youngjae knows how much this means to Daehyun. “Daehyun, you better not do ‘Blue Steel’. I know you practiced in the mirror but trust me it is not a good look for you.”

Daehyun laughs.

"Hey!" Daehyun protests. "It's not that bad. I've even gotten fan mail about how charming my expressions are."

"Fans are so good at self delusion," Youngjae says calmly.

Daehyun humphs. "Well, you don't have to worry. They have stylists and coordinators and assistants and all kinds of people here." He is quiet for a moment. "I can't believe it's all for me."

"You deserve it," Youngjae says, and the intensity of this assertion surprises him. "Come on, Dae. You know how hard you've worked. You deserve this."

"Yeah," Daehyun says. Then, more quietly still, "I wish you were here. You'd crack up at the outfits they've got me in."

Guilt rolls in Youngjae's stomach like a bad case of heartburn. Don't apologize, he reminds himself. "Send me a picture," he tells Daehyun.

"I will," Daehyun says. "They're taking tons. They've got so much makeup on me, too. I look like a total pancake face.”

Youngjae laughs. “This is going to be classic.”

"It's weird," Daehyun says. There is the muffled noise of someone talking in the background, and then he says, "Listen, Youngjae, I've got to go. Time for my spotlight."

"Good luck," Youngjae says.

"I'll call you soon," Daehyun says.

He hangs up.

Youngjae swallows. Talking to Daehyun is like opening up a window back into the real world. If he hadn't quit his job and hadn't come here, he _would_ be there with Daehyun: the supportive 'best friend' tagging along to soak up of some of the star's glamour. He would stand on the sidelines and think of snarky observations with which to amuse Daehyun later. He would watch Daehyun fulfill all his dreams and his heart would swell with pride and with jealousy. Later they'd go out for dinner with friends, everyone boisterous and glad at Daehyun's successes.

Instead he is alone nursing an injury inflicted by a ghost, wondering if he should go make amends with the gumiho next door.

He could go back to Seoul. It wouldn’t take long. He might even make it in time to surprise Daehyun at the photoshoot. He knows that is what everyone is expecting: he’ll give up and come home and resume his normal life, if a little altered. But things are different now, somehow. He has seen things he didn’t believe were real, things he doesn’t understand. And Himchan is his friend, even if he is a gumiho. Youngjae can’t just leave, not without apologizing, not without trying to understand.

*****

Youngjae spends a quiet evening reading and goes to bed early. By the time he wakes up the next morning, the bruise has nearly faded. He feels better, and makes plans to repaint trim around the front door and windows. He needs groceries in addition to the painting supplied, so he gets dressed and gets ready for a trip into town. This all feels pointless, in a way -- nobody would suffer if the house fell into disrepair -- but it's keeping him busy.

He doesn't slow down and doesn't look at Himchan's house on the drive into town.

After stopping at the hardware store, he goes to the restaurant that makes the really good galbitang. He is halfway through his bowl of soup when Jongup walks through the front door.

Youngjae catches his eye and smiles, and Jongup comes and joins him at the table.

"Hyung," Jongup says, sounding happier to see Youngjae than he has any reason to be. "Back in town for more supplies? How are you?”

"Good," Youngjae says. "I'm good, Jongup."

"You've lasted two weeks," he says. "That means you're almost a native. We’re going to have to get started on that bathroom renovation."

Two weeks? Is that all it's been? "A local?" Youngjae says, laughing. "I still barely know my way into town." He hesitates for a moment. "I don't know any of the good local stories. You know, ghost stories and legends and that kind of things."

“Wish you could have talked to my grandfather,” Jongup says. “He would have told you more stories than you could handle. He was always looking for a captive audience.”

Youngjae smiles. "I bet you know a lot too, though."

Jongup nods. "Oh yeah," he says. "I've heard them all a million time."

"There are so many old houses around here, too," Youngjae says, feeling obvious. "Did you go looking for ghosts as a kid?"

"My brothers used to make me go," Jongup says, disgruntled.

"Did you go to that house out by my place?" Youngjae asks. "The one with the stone wall?"

Jongup shakes his head and takes a long drink. "Oh no," he says. "My grandfather would have killed us if we'd gone there. There's a really, really evil spirit trapped here."

Youngjae's throat goes dry. He takes a long drink of his beer. "An evil spirit, huh?"

Jongup nodded. "That's what my grandfather says. There's a story about it he likes to tell. A gumiho played a trick on a priestess, pretended to be human, and she trapped him in the house. Something like that." He shakes his head. "I can't really keep all of these old stories straight."

The ahjumma comes with Jongup’s soup then. She places a big bubbling bowl in front of him, and then they spend a few moments slurping down hot broth and noodles.

A terrible cold feeling is welling up in the pit of Youngjae’s stomach and he's really not hungry at all now. He tries to act nonchalant. "Just an old fairy story," he says. "I don't really believe any of it."

Jongup just shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "I've never seen a ghost or anything, but I haven't really been looking. And every time someone has tried to buy that house, the deal has always fallen through.”

"Oh?” Youngjae says. “It’s for sale?”

“I think so,” Jongup says, slurping. “You know, it’s a nice piece of property on the river there. The family that owns it all lives up in Seoul now. Have for years and years. There have been a few rumors about it finally being sold, but it never works out. It’s like someone is trying to keep everyone away, keep things just the way they are.”

He grins. “Someone, or something.”

Youngjae swallows. “It’s all made up,” He says, not believing a word of what he says.

*****

It is raining the next morning. Rain was not in the forecast, but the sky is low and grey and there is a sullen, steady rain falling. Youngjae cannot paint the window frames in this weather. He putters around in the kitchen for a few hours, but there seems to be no point to anything he does. What does it matter if there are a few dirty dishes in the sink? He fails to remember why things like that matter. There is something off, he thinks. As he's scrubbing burnt eggs from a frying pan, his thoughts keep returning to Himchan: the golden fox eyes and the white-toothed grin. The way Himchan was so insistent than Youngjae was interesting, mattered, could do something more worthwhile than submit fucking time reports.

Was it all an act? Was the interest a feint? What did an ancient spirit trapped in a ruin care about a boring ex-salaryman? Even Youngjae's closest friends aren't that interested in him.

In the end, knowing is better than not knowing. He can’t stop thinking about Himchan, and wondering if he’s okay. Youngjae puts on his hiking boots and his rain coat. He puts a few bottles of soju in his backpack: an offer? He locks the house and sets off down the road towards Himchan's place. The rain falls in heavy sheets, and he's half convinced that when he gets there all he'll see is the ruin. Maybe everything has been some very convincing hallucination.

But lights are in the windows. Youngjae walks carefully up to the door and raps with the fox-head door knocker. He closes his eyes. His skin is crawling, cold and clammy, and he's not sure if it's fear or something more tangible.

The heavy door opens, hinges creaking.

"Youngjae," Himchan says. "I knew you'd be back." He smiles.

Youngjae opens his eyes. Himchan is standing in the doorway, eyes bright in the shadow.

"Hi," Youngjae says, quietly.

Himchan grins. "Hello. How's the ankle?"

"Okay," Youngjae says, even though it is aching in the cold rain. "Hurts a little bit."

"It will," Himchan says. "That ghost is nasty. Should heal up okay though."

"Why ... Why'd you take me back there?" Youngjae asks.

Himchan shrugs. "The fishing is good," he says. "Ghosts aside, I mean. I really didn’t think she’d bother you with me around.” He sounds apologetic.

"Oh," Youngjae says, lightly.

"Well," Himchan says. "Come inside. What kind of a host would I be to leave you standing outside in this weather?"

He steps aside and lets Youngjae precede him into the house. The hall is dark. Himchan snaps, and lights flicker into being, but they're not the fancy electric fixtures of Youngjae's other visits. Several apple-sized white globes hover near the ceiling like enormous fireflies.

"Since you know the truth," Himchan says, "I'm going to dispense with some of the illusion. It's easier for me this way."

"Sure," Youngjae says. He looks around, and for the first time sees the house for what it is: an ancient and crumbling ruin with a falling-in roof and water stains on the floors and walls. "So, I guess this place isn't really going to be featured in Architectural Digest, huh?"

Himchan laughs. "Sadly, no. I think my design skills are up to par, but I'm not sure how my illusions photograph."

"Ah," Youngjae says. "Right."

He follows Himchan into the kitchen, a crumbling, ancient room with evidence of a recent fire in the stone hearth. There are no stainless steel appliances and no marble countertops

Youngjae swallows. "So," he says.

"Ah," Himchan says. "Yes."

Youngjae frowns. "I don't understand. What is this place?”

"Just what it looks like. A house, about 300 years old," Himchan says. "All that other stuff was just illusion. Took it out of your head, in fact. I’m a bit out of touch with modern decorating trends. I'm a gumiho. Fox spirit. I _was_ just a fox, once upon a time, a long, long time ago, but if you're smart enough and tricky enough and stay alive long enough you become ..." He shrugs.

"What?" Youngjae's mouth is dry.

"Something more than a fox," Himchan says plainly.

"What ... What do you want with me?"

Himchan laughs. "Nothing," he says, vehemently. "You're the one who came knocking on my door, remember?"

"Oh," Youngjae says. "Right." He’d forgotten.

"I'm surprised you were even able to," Himchan says. "That's part of the curse, you know."

"What?" Youngjae isn't normally this monosyllabic.

"People _avoid_ this place." He has a sour look on his face. "They get the heebie-jeebies. Between that and the stories about ghosts and evil spirits, most people won't set foot past the wall."

"Oh," Youngjae says. "I didn't notice, I guess." He remembers a feeling of unease but his heart had been so heavy then that maybe he hadn't had room for any other fear.

"I know," Himchan says. "I ignored you at first, but then you came back and kept pounding on the door while I was trying to sleep.”

"Sorry," Youngjae says in a small voice. "I um. Sorry."

"It's fine," Himchan says. "I've spent most of the last three hundred years sleeping. A change was long overdue."

Youngjae nods. The big firefly lights hover overhead and the rain patters outside. The air is cool and fresh: there's no glass in the windows now, of course. "Why were you nice to me?" he asks. "I mean, if you weren't trying to lure me here to devour my soul or something."

Himchan looks hurt. It's harder to read his expressions, now that his eyes are strange. "I'm a gumiho," he says, " not a monster. I thought we were friends."

Something tight that has been wound around Youngjae's guts relaxes. "Oh," he says. "Yeah. We are." He smiles.

"Good," Himchan says. “It’s been awhile since I had a friend.”

Youngjae thinks about the many many long lonely years Himchan spent alone here. How terrible. Worse than death, that much long mundane living. It makes Youngjae’s skin crawl. He is glad he can be a friend to Himchan now. He reaches into his backpack. "I brought some soju," he says.

"Why don't you stay for dinner? I have fish." Himchan grins and his sharp canine teeth gleam. "I'll even cook it, if you're staying."

They cook the fish over a fire in the yard. The raindrops steam as the hit the flames. They eat with their fingers on the crumbling back porch. It is messy and good. Youngjae burns himself, but doesn't care. They share the soju, passing the bottle back and forth.

"So," Youngjae says. "I don't understand. If the priestess was angry you tricked her into thinking you loved her, why did she trap you here? Why didn't she like ..." He waves his hands vaguely. "Banish you or something. Send you to the netherworld."

"Doesn't work like that," Himchan says. "There's no netherworld. Not one I know of, anyway."

Youngjae frowns. "But you ... then where did you learn to play the jjangu? Isn't there like some, magical fox world or something? A fox king and queen?”

Himchan laughs and laughs. It sounds rougher now, more like a bark. "You've been watching too much television," he says. "No magical fox world. We tend to find each other, though. The older ones look out for younger ones ... there was someone who looked after me, back then. He taught me about music." Himchan smiles sadly. "He taught me about almost everything, actually."

"Where is he now?"

Himchan shakes his head. "Yongguk? I don't know. Haven't seen him in centuries. He didn't approve of what I was doing." He takes a long drink of soju. "Didn't think it was right of me to trick humans. Hypocrite."

"Why?" Youngjae asks. "He tricked people too or something?"

Himchan narrows his eyes. "Don't you get it?" He gestures at himself. "That's how it works. We spend time with humans, we learn, we survive, we spend more time with humans ... eventually ... Ta-dah!" He holds up his hand and that glowing ball of light appears, shimmering and beautiful. “This is it. Half a millennia of _ki_ , all I’ve got.”

“That’s what makes you … more than a fox,” Youngjae says, realization dawning.

“Exactly,” Himchan says. “And to leave this place, I’d have to give it all up. That’s the condition of the curse. She was a clever woman, Jun Hyosung.” He sounds a little regretful

"So you … gain power by being near humans?”

Himchan snaps his fingers. "Exactly! I knew you were sharp. Yongguk ... he followed a monk around or something, centuries and centuries ago. Thought that made him better than your run of the mill trickster." He makes a small, sad noise in the back of his throat. "It did, I guess." He shakes his head, like clearing away bad thoughts. "He's probably long gone by now."

"Gone?" Youngjae frowns. "I thought you were, y'know, immortal."

"Supposedly," Himchan says, "if you live long enough, and learn enough, and ... I don't know, wish upon the right fucking star, you turn into a real human. If anyone pulled that off, it’d be Yongguk." He snorts, like this is a big joke, but there's something terribly wistful in his voice.

Youngjae frowns. "Why would you want to be human? Isn't it better to be the way you are?" He points up at the lights bobbing near the ceiling. "You can do that. And the thing with the house. You can do _magic_."

Himchan shrugs. "Just illusion," he says. "It's all pretend."

"It's amazing," Youngjae says. "You can make anything you want. You can _be_ anyone you want." He takes a long drink of soju, draining the bottle. It burns a little as it goes down, but it feels good. He sets the bottle down, but the wood decking is uneven or his hand is uneven or something, because the bottle wobbles precariously before falling over and rolling slowly off the porch. It hits the ground and shatters.

Himchan shakes his head. "Nope," he says. "I'm just me. I've never quite been able to believe my own illusions."

Youngjae closes his eyes. "Stupid," he says.

"What?" Himchan says, his voice sharp suddenly.

"It's so stupid," Youngjae says. "Being a human is _awful_ . There's nothing but the same dumb bullshit, day after day. Nothing good ever happens, and nothing ever changes, and it's awful. I felt like I was going to suffocate if I didn't get out. You want to give this up for _that_?"

Himchan shakes his head. "You're so young," he says. His eyes shine like coins as he looks up. "You're so young and so lucky, and you don't even realize."

Youngjae scoffs. He pops the cap off another bottle of soju. He is drinking too much. It is evening now. Dark is coming on early because of the weather. The rain is falling harder. The fire is reduced to smoldering, smokey ashes.

"You love him," Himchan says.

"Who?" Youngjae narrows his eyes.

Himchan waves his hand. "Your friend. The singer. I can tell by the way you talk about him."

Youngjae frowns. "It's complicated," he says lamely, but his stomach churns. What is Daehyun doing right now? His album is going to drop any day. It's the most important thing that he's ever done. Youngjae's not there but there will be other people for Daehyun this time.

"It's not, really," Himchan says. "You love him." He laughs. "You humans try to make everything so difficult. You don't know how lucky you are to be able to get so close to someone and learn their heart that well and not have to _lie_ to do it.”

"That's not enough," Youngjae says in a quiet voice. "That can't be enough."

Himchan doesn't reply. For a long time the only sound is the sound of the falling rain and of Youngjae drinking. One by one the lights floating overhead go out, until there is just one left, hovering like a small, fat moon. Youngjae's vision is swimming. He seems to have drunk most of the soju himself.

"If it's not enough to fall in love with someone," Himchan says, "I don't know what is. I've had centuries, and I've never found anything else." He closes his eyes.

Youngjae nods sloppily. His head feels loose on his neck.

Himchan shakes his head. That little ball of glowing light appears in his hand again. "Go to sleep," he says, and the faintest stream of that stardust settles on Youngjae's skin. His head is heavy. He lays down and he sleeps.

*****

Youngjae wakes in the morning with a stiff neck and a sour stomach. It is still raining. The house is a cold and empty ruin.

Youngjae sits up. The soju bottles have rolled here and there. The fire is a pile of wet ash. The fish bones look like they've been picked over by some wild animal, littering the yard. The morning is grey. There are no more twinkling lights. There is no more magic.

Youngjae sits for a long time and stares at the misty morning. The light is dead and grey, and it is too cold for this time of year. Finally, he puts on his rain boots and his coat and heads home. At the road, he turns to look back, but there are no lights in the window this time.

Himchan is gone.

It is a long walk home. The road is muddy and Youngjae slips several times. His head aches, so that he can't think anything at all other than how bad he feels, and how stupid he is, and how even his adventures fizzle out to disappointing, inconsequential ends.

At home, he kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed fully dressed.

He sleeps for the rest of the day.

He wakes after dark still feeling tired. His stomach aches. He drags himself into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is grey and unsmiling. He can’t shake the feeling that something is watching him, something unseen but everywhere. He turns the water on as hot as it will go and leans against the wall breathing in the steam until his skin starts to feel wrinkly. He'd thought the shower would revive him, but he just feels wrung out.

After dressing he goes to the kitchen and turns on a burner. He cracks an egg into the frying pan. It sizzles appetizingly, but by the time it's done and on his plate, Youngjae isn’t hungry. He pulls it apart with his chopsticks but eats very little.

It is raining harder than ever. He can hear the river rushing downhill outside the kitchen window.

He sits with his chin in his hand, leaning against the rickety wooden table. He feels so tired -- empty, almost. He glances at his phone. It's not too late. Daehyun will still be up.

He answers on the fourth ring, right before the call goes to voicemail.

"Hello? Youngjae?" It's noisy where Daehyun is.

"Hey," Youngjae says. "Are you busy? I can call back."

"The label threw me a party." Daehyun sounds so happy. "The song is out tomorrow."

"That's amazing," Youngjae says. "I can't wait to hear it."

"You've heard it," Daehyun says, laughing. "I think you've heard me play it more than anyone, even the sound engineers, and I thought they were going to kill me if I asked for any more takes."

Youngjae nods. He remembers all those nights, sitting tired on the couch pretending to read or play a computer game but mostly listening as Daehyun noodled on his guitar and wrote and crossed out lyrics in his old notebook.

"I haven't heard this version," Youngjae says, trying to sound normal.

"You can download it like everyone else," Daehyun says, giddy. "I need all the help I can get on the Melon rankings."

Youngjae smiles. "Please," he says. "Your fans are going to make sure you're in the top ten."

"Fans," Daehyun says, sounding disbelieving and amazed. "Wouldn't be awesome if they did?"

The noise in the background intensifies. Youngjae can hear someone singing. "I'll let you go," he says, slowly.

"Okay," says Daehyun. Then, "Are you okay? You sound kinda ..."

"What?"

"I don't know," Daehyun says, quietly. "Just not like yourself."

"I'm okay," Youngjae says. "Just ..."

"What?" Daehyun sounds worried now. "Youngjae, what's going on?"

"Nothing," Youngjae says in a rush. "Nothing. I just ... I got caught out in the rain the other day. It won't stop raining here. I think I caught a cold or something."

"Oh," Daehyun says. He still doesn't sound happy. "Okay. Well, make sure you take care of yourself, okay? If I know you you probably haven't eaten anything since ramen if you got there. I'm going to have to make you some chicken soup or something ..."

"I fried myself an egg for dinner," Youngjae says, mock indignant.

"Gee," Daehyun says. "I'm so reassured."

"Go have fun," Youngjae says. "I'm fine."

"Okay," Daehyun says. "But I'm calling back tomorrow to check on you."

"You've got enough to do tomorrow," Youngjae says. "Stop worrying about me."

"I don't want to," Daehyun says, mulishly.

Youngjae swallows, but he can't think of anything to say. He can hear people applauding in the background as the song comes to an end. "Go have fun," he says again.

"Ok," Daehyun says, but he doesn’t sound happy.

Youngjae hangs up.

He sits at the kitchen table for a long time, listening to the rain and hoping that Daehyun is having fun, and that Youngjae's call hasn't cast a pall over his evening.

He should be there, he thinks. He shouldn't have let some minor disappointment throw him so far off course. Getting passed up for the promotion hadn't felt minor, of course. It had felt like a blow to the gut. There would have been other chances down the road, if he hadn't overreacted and given up, like a child.

It hadn't felt that way though. It had felt like the end of the world, and it had felt like nobody else cared at all.

It is midnight when he looks down at his phone. He's only been up for five or six hours, but he's tired again already. He changes into pajamas and goes to bed.

He dreams of the ghost that night -- that clawing, drawn wicked face from the river, reaching for him, dragging him down into the cold black nothing. He clings to the bank, fingers digging into the dirt until they are bloody and raw, but kick and thrash as he might, he can't shake the icy hand wrapped around his ankle. Centimeter by centimeter, he sinks lower, and each time he fights to throw the thing off, he gets more and more tired, until even keeping his head above the water is an enormous burden.

He wakes up startled, surprised to find that he can breath. He is underneath warm blankets, not sinking into that cold, black water. It is dark. For a moment Youngjae thinks it is still night, but his phone says it's almost eight o'clock.

He does not feel like he's slept eight hours.

Stiff, moving slowly, he shuffles through the dark, empty house. The rain is loud on the roof. He slides open the door onto the porch and stares, horrified and amazed.

Several inches of brown, frothing water swirl around the gatepost. The water is sluggish -- nobody is going to get washed away -- but it is rising steadily into the garden and towards the house.

Youngjae has never heard of the river overflowing its banks to this extent. He has never heard of the house flooding. He shuts the door. In the kitchen, he sits at the table and tries to access weather reports on his phone, but he seems to have no reception at all. It’s never great up here, but the weather must be interfering more than usual.

He gets the ancient radio from his grandparents’ room. The batteries are dead, but through some unexpected moment of foresight he’d gotten some on his last trip in town. He pops in the new battery and scans through the stations. Static crackles. Finally, he finds an AM station that seems to be broadcasting emergency bulletins. Only snippets come through:

_“ … localized low pressure system stalled over … Severe flooding in several districts … if possible vacate low lying areas and move to higher … Rain is expected to continue for at least the next twenty four hours until this front moves …”_

No good news. The static gives him a headache. He turns the radio off.

Outside the kitchen window, the valley is gone, obscured behind the sheets of rain. It seems like he’s floating in the middle of a cloud. Something about this thought makes his stomach twist unhappily. He doesn’t want to disappear.

Maybe he hadn’t been lying to Daehyun. Maybe he really does have a cold. He certainly isn’t feeling well.

He spends the day in bed, reading, trying to ignore the sound of the rain on the roof. It’s like a million tiny hammering fists. The book is okay -- something Junhong had given him as a gift before he left -- but he can’t concentrate. He keeps thinking about Daehyun, and wishing he could check to see how his song is doing on the charts. He thinks about Himchan, and wonders if the river has risen high enough to reach the ruined house there. He wonders if gumiho can swim.

He dreams. A fox -- black and sleek with golden eyes -- runs through the dripping, dark woods. There is something bright like a star shining on its breast. It bounds from stone to stump to root, doing everything it can to avoid walking through the rising water of an angry river. Streamers of mist wend through the trees. The fox snaps at them, angrily. Smaller, frightened creatures scurry out of its way, seeking the safety of quiet, dry burrows and nests.

The fox pauses at a little rise in the bank of the river, where the roots of a giant old tree overhang a dark pool of water. The water is unquiet and turbulent. The fox crouches, tense, ready to leap. Something deep in the water thrashes and bubbles, rising up. A wave of water crests. The fox leaps …

Youngjae wakes up. He has fallen asleep with his face on the book. There’s a wet spot on the page from his breathing. It is very dark out now, although he doesn’t think he could have slept long enough for night to fall.

And it is not night yet. The rain is just falling more heavily and the clouds pressing more closely so that everything seems like it's closing in around him. He tries to stand, but terrible pain shoots up his leg. Looking down, his ankle is red and swollen and bruised again. Limping, leaning against walls and clinging to doorways, he makes his way to the kitchen. The power seems to be out. His phone almost dead. Stupid of him not to plug it in last night, but that's what happens when you fall into a stupor.

He sends Daehyun a quick text message: _Fighting!!_

He thinks about eating, but he's not hungry. He spends a little while messing with the radio, but the reception is all scrambled now. He only gets static.

He pulls on a sweatshirt. The air is cold but damp. He takes it off again right away. He hobbles to the porch, wincing with every step. His leg throbs. His eyes water from the pain. Leaning against the doorway and breathing heavily, he leans down and rolls up the leg of his pajama pants. His ankle is swollen and purple.

Filthy and turgid water fills the courtyard, inches from the bottom step. It has risen far while Youngjae slept, and with a terrible certainty he realizes that it is going to keep rising. He falls back against the wall of the house, eyes clenched shut, but that is worse, because he can _hear_ now.

Louder than the pounding of the rain, a gurgling, terrible voice drones on and on.

_... there is nothing warm and nothing good and nothing kind and nothing ... nothing ... nothing …_

On hands and knees, he crawls across the deck, dragging his right leg behind him. The pain has dug its claws in so deep he can barely think. Every movement sears, every moment of rest throbs. It's terrible, but at least it reminds him that he's here, in this house, in his body, because this huge nothing is pressing in all around.

Trembling, he rests, head on his forearms. The roof is leaking. His hair is wet and plastered to his face. His tee shirt sticks to this back. With one final gasp, he reaches the the edge of the deck. He wraps his fingers around the worn boards. The terrible, rotten face of the ghost hovers just under the surface of the water.

When its eyes meet Youngjae, it grins, revealing broken, rotten teeth. Those long-fingered hands reach up and wrap around Youngjae's wrists. Its touch sears. His arms give out, and he falls onto his face. He can hear something crack -- nose? teeth? He's not sure, but he tastes blood. Like a fish on a hook, Youngjae squirms feebly, but the angle is awkward. His shoulders ache. The ghost's grip is like iron. He's so tired. He's so sick of fighting. Slowly, slowly, the ghost drags him forward. He slips, limp, off the porn and into the water.

It's so _cold_. He breathes in and his lungs are filled with ice. It doesn't hurt, though. That should be a relief but in some ways it's worse than pain. He would rather feel every ounce of hurt he’s ever felt than endure in this awful nothing.

He can hear the ghost’s voice much more clearly now. It echoes loud in his mind.

_... so warm still. You didn't want the warmth, so I'll take it. I'll drink it down and swallow it up and it will be gone because I'm so cold so cold always so cold and no amount of love and light and warmth will ever change that. You have fire hidden in your heart but it is not enough to dispel the darkness ..._

Youngjae's eyelids flutter. In the cold water, everything is dim and still. He knows there is something he should remember, but he can't think of anything, really. Just ... a song, faintly heard.

Yes, a song. He opens his mouth and coughs. Bubbles rise up to the surface. He hums a faint melody and tries to remember where he heard this song and why it makes that fire in his heart burn so brightly. The ghost stills, as if listening, but then hisses and thrashes. Youngjae is buffeted. The ghosts black nails dig into his wrists. There is a light in the darkness, but it can't last. It will fade, and everything will be black. But it does not fade. It grows stronger and more distinct until Youngjae can see something like a white star coming towards him quickly through the darkness.

Something bright and dark all at once crashes into the ghost. The terrible grip on Youngjae's wrists relaxes and he pulls himself free. The ghost tumbles away in an explosion of bubbles and black, viscous blood. A great fox with golden eyes and a shining light on his chest gives chase. His curved white teeth sink into the rotten grey flesh of the ghost, tearing, ripping. The ghost slashes with those long nails, and the fox's bright red blood spills into the dark water too. They cling to each other, struggling. The fox kicks with his strong back legs, but the ghost is faster and grabs his ankle and _twists_.

The fox barks in terrible pain. One back foot is crushed and feeble. Oh no. _No_.

"Himchan!"

Youngjae still feels so cold, like the darkness has soaked into his flesh, but Himchan came to save him and now he is hurt. The ghost is looming, repulsed and drawn to Himchan's brilliant light.

Youngjae has never been a good swimmer, and now his whole body hurts. His ankle is on fire. His wrists scream, but he pulls himself through the darkness towards the ghost as it lunges at Himchan. Its terrible long nails sink deep into Himchan's side and Himchan screams. Youngjae feels his heart throb with pain and horror. He is hurt and weak and there's nothing _special_ about him that would give him any edge over the ghost, but he throws himself at it anyway.

He hammers at the ghost's slimy wet flank with his fists. Its terrible rotten flesh is spongy to the touch. Youngjae's stomach turns, but he doesn't stop. The ghost screams, wordless and angry, and turns to Youngjae. Its nails are dripping with Himchan's blood. It looms huge. Its lank weedy hair writhes in the unquiet water and its mouth gapes, and inside that gaping terrible mouth there is just more dark nothingness. Youngjae looks to the side, and oh. Himchan is floating in the water, limp and wreathed by his own blood. Oh. His heart aches.

In that moment of distraction the ghost seizes Youngjae's wrists again. Its grip does not feel quite as strong, but Youngae is spent. He is so tired. This is more than he can stand.

_I came here for you because you are like me._

The ghost's voice is the dead gurgle of a drowned man. It's horrible to hear, and it is echoing in Youngjae's head.

"No! You're a monster! I'm not like you!"

_You are. I am empty, and you are empty, and we are in this empty place, and ..._

"I'm _not_ ," Youngjae screams. "I'm not. I'm not like you."

_You told the fox. You told him nothing mattered. You told him nothing. You said nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothi..._

"I was wrong," Youngjae says. He is crying, and his warm salty tears mingle with the freezing cold water. He had been so, so wrong, and now it doesn't matter.

Something fast and dark rockets through the water, slamming into the ghost. Youngjae tumbles away. When he rights himself he sees Himchan digs his teeth into the ghost's shoulder. The light on his chest is burning more brightly still, so that it is hard to look in his direction. He is bleeding, and his leg is still twisted in a way that makes Youngjae sick to see, but Himchan is _alive_.

He feels relief like he has rarely known. In spite of everything he is so glad and so grateful.

The light glowing on Himchan's breast flares brilliantly. He looks up, and his golden eyes are bright. It is so hard to read the fox's face, but Youngjae thinks he might be smiling. Then, fierce and terrible, the fox bites deep with sharp teeth and tears out the ghost's throat.

There is a terrible wail that comes from everywhere at once, the cry of all the pain and sadness in the whole world. Youngjae squeezes his eyes shut and clamps his hands over his ears. Himchan is surrounded by that white light, still ripping and tearing and rending. The ghost is coming apart, flesh fading to nothing and disappearing, but a deeper darkness is spreading out from it in an inky pool. It convulses, and the darkness surges forward, thick and black and heavy. It washes over Youngjae, and he gasps at the terrible cold. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is Himchan, burning bright, alone in that sea of total black.

*****

He wakes up wet and cold and hurting everywhere. Youngjae opens his eyes and then shuts them right away. It is still dim and cloudy, but after that intense blackness, his eyes can't handle the light. More slowly, he opens his eyes and looks up at the sky. It is not raining now, and the clouds look lighter, maybe, fractionally.

He is in the garden, on his back on the wet gravel. There is rubbish everywhere, but the water is receding. Slowly, with throbbing head, he sits up. Everything spins for a moment, and then rights itself.

He doesn't understand what happened. He remembers falling into the water, and the cold darkness he found there, and the ghost, terrible and sad.

It must have been a bad dream.

But it was not a dream, because Himchan is lying a few feet away from him

Youngjae tries to stand, but his ankle can't support his weight. He drags himself across the ground, scraping his palms. Himchan is a dark, limp shape, not looking very big or fierce now at all. His left back paw is crushed, and his fur is matted with dark blood along the side where the ghost gored him.

But he is breathing.

"You saved me," Youngjae says. He can't believe anyone would do such a thing, especially Himchan. Hadn't he told Youngjae want it meant for him to leave the place where he was trapped? "You idiot."

Youngjae should get help, although he's not sure how. He should do _something_ but he feels so sad and tired and worn and his heart is breaking at the sight of Himchan's small broken fox body. He swallows and sniffs but he can't stop himself from crying. He presses his face against the soft fur of Himchan's side and he sobs. It's not fair. It's not fair that Himchan was trapped in that house and it's not fair that he had to give himself up to come rescue Youngjae and that now Youngjae can do nothing to help him in return. It's not fair that Youngjae can't have what we wants. It's not fair that he doesn't know what it is he wants. It's not fair that everything is so _difficult_.

Himchan shifts beneath him. Youngjae sits up, startled.

The big golden eyes are open now and the light is kindled on Himchan's breast again. That light -- Himchan's magic, his carefully gathered _ki_ \-- is diminished, dimmer but still beautiful. Even as Youngjae watches, more of it bleeds away -- the cost of defying the priestess's curse. How many centuries would it take for Himchan to regain what he has already lost?

Slowly, the fox pushes himself onto three feet, putting no weight on his injured back leg. He moves in a curious hop. He presses his wet, cold fox nose against Youngjae's cheek. Youngjae's face crumples, and he wipes at his eyes, angry and sad. Himchan presses close, and Youngjae wraps his arms around him.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You got hurt. You shouldn't have come here. I wish I could ..."

He trails off. The little ball of glowing light, so much reduced, is rising from Himchan now, floating between them. It hovers in front of Youngjae's face, pearly and bright, and he understands what Himchan is going to do.

"No," he says. "No! Himchan! Don't!"

But it is too late. The fox grins and its golden eyes are brighter. Like dandelion fluff blown apart by the wind, the light bursts into a thousand million tiny points of light that slowly settle on everything. Youngjae stares at his hands. They are covered in the finest shimmering layer of magic. Magic coats the fox's fur like frost. It covers the ground and the porch and everything Youngjae can see. Iridescent light blazes. Everything is white.

Then it fades, and Youngjae feels so much better. His leg and his wrists do not hurt, and the dark shadow of that cold black evil that had lingered in his chest -- that he hadn't even realized was there -- is almost all gone. The yard looks bright, again, and overhead the clouds are thinning and flying away to reveal patches of blue sky.

The fox takes a ginger step on its mended back leg. Its eyes are still beautiful and wild but not _magic_ any longer.

Youngjae starts crying again. Tears roll down his cheeks. He can't help himself. "Thank you," he says.

The fox looks at him for a long moment, mouth open and red tongue lolling. There is nothing Youngjae recognizes any more. He gave it all up. Youngjae gets to his feet, slowly. The fox goes still and wary, and then shoots out of the yard, moving quickly but unsteadily. It lingers on the road for a moment and then disappears into the forest on the other side, a dark shadow among the trees.

Youngjae watches for a moment before heading back to the house. The rain has passed, and there is a lot to do. The fox is not coming back.

*****

He sleeps well that night. In the morning he is ravenous. He eats a meal of kimchi and rice and then spends several hours cleaning the garden and porch. He sweeps away the accumulated debris of branches and dirty. He is still weak, like he’s suffered through a long illness, and he gets tired quickly. He dumps the debris outside the walls. The river is still swollen and angry, but it has receded into its normal channel.

By the afternoon, the sun is out and the sky is blue. Youngjae sits on the porch in the sunshine and makes a list of things he needs at the stores: groceries, tar paper to patch the roof, and, most importantly, a new phone. His old one was in his pocket when he fell into the water and is ruined. He’d found it, lying on the round, after the flood receded.

He showers, standing for a long time under the hot, hot water, and then fries an egg, and then he goes and lies down although it is still early. He is tired and sad, but he is okay. He doesn't dream.

He wakes up and freezes, because there is someone beside him. He is afraid at first, but the person beside him is warm and real and snoring in a very familiar way.

"Daehyun," Youngjae says, turning. Daehyun is curled on his side, with hi mouth is open. He looks stupid. "Daehyun!"

Daehyun's eyes open. "Jeeze," he says, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. "No need to scream."

"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at home? Are you supposed to be promoting?" Youngjae wonders if he's dreaming now. He'd given Daehyun a key before he left, but he never expected Daehyun to actually use it.

Slowly, Daehyun sits up. He looks very tired. The bags beneath his eyes are darker and puffier than normal. "Supposed to be," he says, sleepily. "You weren't answering your phone, though, and I kept hearing about the flooding. It was all over the news."

"You were worried," Youngjae says, dumbly.

Daehyun explodes. "Of course I was worried! I worry about you all the time. You think I wouldn't worry when you quit your job and moved out to the middle of nowhere and don't answer your phone in the middle of natural disasters?" He huffs, but seems satisfied to get this all out. "Of course I'm worried."

"Sorry," Youngjae says. "I should have called more. I ... you were so busy. How did you get here? Are you going to be in trouble? How did the song do?"

"Took a bus. Had to hang around in town until I could find someone to give me a ride up. Nobody would come until the weather got better. I finally found a farmer who was trying to get home who agreed to drop me off," Daehyun says. "I'll be in trouble but not too much trouble. I told them I was sick. I'll go back tomorrow. And the song did okay, I guess." He makes a sour face. "It's not going to be the next 'Cherry Blossom Ending' or anything like that."

Youngjae frowns. "What happened? Did the agency not ..."

"Don't worry about it," Daehyun says. "Let's go to sleep. I'm wiped out."

"Okay," Youngjae says quietly. He lies down. Daehyun lies down beside him and slides his hand around around Youngjae's waist.

“I missed you,” Daehyun says.

“I missed you too,” Youngjae says. Daehyun pulls him closer. Youngjae closes his eyes, and sleeps again.

Daehyun is up and cooking breakfast when Youngjae wakes up again. This is how it always is. Daehyun is the early riser and the cook. Youngjae goes into the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee. This too is part of their ritual.

"Let me see your phone," Youngjae says, while Daehyun makes rice and reheats soup. He must have brought supplied with him from the outside.

Daehyun hands it over, and Youngjae searches up all the articles about Daehyun's song on the popular portal sites. The response is favorable but unenthusiastic. Youngjae scowls. "It's pretty rich of someone to say you sound insincere when they're hiding behind some alias on an internet forum."

Daehyun laughs. "I should have known you'd get all worked up. Don't read the comments. I'm not."

"Well it's just not right," Youngjae says. "These people aren't being fair to you at all."

"Oh well," Daehyun says, sounding tired. "That's life."

Youngjae nods. "Yeah," he says. Then, more quietly, he adds, "I really like the song, Daehyun."

"Good," Daehyun says, setting down a few dishes of banchan. "You better."

"You don't even look too stupid in the video," Youngjae says. The cell service is back, and he is streaming it. Although he won't say so, Daehyun actually looks really good.

"Jerk," Daehyun says. "I look great in the video."

They eat breakfast, and then Daehyun has to get ready to go. He needs to catch the nine o'clock bus back to Seoul in order to make his schedule that evening. They don't talk much. Youngjae explains, briefly, about the flood, about tripping and hurting his ankle, about dropping his phone in the water -- a series of terrible but totally mundane disasters. One day he will tell Daehyun the truth as best as he understands it, but not now.

Youngjae locks the house when they go out. He starts the car, which seems no worse for the flooding. The roads are bad and Youngjae is glad for the four wheel drive. He takes things slowly.

"It's nice out here," Daehyun says. "Couldn't see a thing last night."

"It is," Youngjae says. "Quiet."

"You must be so bored," Daehyun says.

Youngjae laughs. "Yeah," he says. "Kind of."

"You're going to come home soon, right?" Daehyun sounds unsure. "I mean, I know I said it was okay, and it is okay. You don’t have to get another job. It just must be really boring out here."

Youngjae waits a minute before answering. "Yeah, I think I am."

"Good." Daehyun smiles. He turns the radio on. They play a few songs, none of which are his.

At the bottom of the hill, something darts out in front of the car. Youngjae brakes, hard, and gasps as the seat belt catches him.

Daehyun grunts. "What are you ..."

But he doesn't continue, because standing in the middle of the road is a big black fox with gold eyes. Youngjae can't breath, can't think, certainly can't drive.

"Oh my god," Daehyun says. "Look at that thing. I've never seen a fox like that. Is it a wolf? Do they have wolves around here? Are we going to get eaten?"

Youngjae ignores him. Another fox is slinking out of the woods. This one is just as large, but the blue gray of smoke. It walks deliberately over to the first fox. They both turn to look at him. Their eyes meet, and the black fox grins. There is a moment that seems to last forever.

Youngjae thinks, 'Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’

Then, fast and scared, the two foxes turn and run back to the woods.

**Author's Note:**

> A few more notes: 
> 
> This story was inspired by several things, notably [Spirited Away](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spirited_Away) and a lot of my favorite YA fantasy, particularly Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising Series. It is also more generally inspired by the myth of the gumiho, or nine-tailed fox. [Several](https://rnillo2012.wordpress.com/2011/01/07/the-art-of-storytelling-asian-mythology-the-nine-tailed-fox-part-1/) [websites](http://www.dramabeans.com/2010/08/pop-culture-gumiho/#ifrndnloc) were helpful as I researched gumiho myths and decided how to incorporate them into this story. Finally, the ghost is supposed to be a [Korean 물귀신 or water ghost](http://seoulsync.com/culture/traditional/famous-korean-ghosts). 
> 
> I really had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy!


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